


Full Tilt Boogie

by essenceofmeanin, hansbekhart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Spookiness, Canon-Typical Violence, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Mind Control, Orgy, Some deep thoughts on disco, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-12
Updated: 2008-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-12 05:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7086919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/essenceofmeanin/pseuds/essenceofmeanin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hansbekhart/pseuds/hansbekhart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


 

 

"The moon was as big and round as a disco ball, the night that the Red Room burned to the ground," Dean says. He can't whisper dramatically; the music is too loud for that and anyway, Michael's hardly paying attention. The kid's staring unabashedly up at the naked girl gathering bills off the stage as 'Hot For Teacher' finally grinds to an end.

There's a pair of bright pink panties lying entirely too close to Sam's hand. He snags an ashtray to surreptitiously push them closer to the dancer with. She flashes him a smile and flounces away with them in hand. "Simmer down, Sammy," Dean says without looking over. "There's a naked girl dancing two feet away from us and you're not allowed to be a bitch about it. Mikey, this is for your benefit so you better be listening."

"Disco ball," Michael says, his hand wrapped tightly around his Coke. "Burned to the ground. I'm listening."

"Business first," Dean says approvingly. Sam rolls his eyes. "All right, Sammy. You wanna give Boy Wonder here the lowdown about what we're doing back in his neck of the woods?"

Sam sighs and flips open his battered notebook. "Madison, Wisconsin, home of America's ugliest hotel, the Red Room. Built during that heyday of architecture, the late 1960s, as a concept hotel. It was meant to look like a turkey from above, don't ask me why. We've stayed in some weird places in our time, but this one definitely takes the cake. It was taken over by a man named Bones – no last name given – in the mid-70s and turned into the largest discothèque in, uh, Wisconsin history. The Red Room became notoriously wild even for the swinger set, but when the decade ended, so did business. She burned down in the early 80s, cause unknown, taking sixteen people with her, including the owner. The bodies were never recovered."

"All that polyester and non-flame-retardant shag carpeting," Dean says, and Michael spits a mouthful of Coke onto the table.

" _Anyway_ ," Sam says, glaring down at the notebook, "the first recorded disappearance from the area happened about six months after the fire. Over the last twenty-five years, there've been almost sixty known disappearances, usually occurring around the full moon."

Michael scratches his head. "Maybe we're dealing with a werewolf?"

Sam taps his pen, frowning. "Pattern's wrong. The disappearances would be more regular, and there'd be some sign of the bodies afterwards."

"Plus," Dean grins, flipping the book around so he can read it, "We have a survivor. Morton Greene, age thirty-three. He was the prime suspect when his wife was murdered about five years previously, so the locals assumed that he skipped town. Three months ago he shows up dressed head to toe in disco duds, with total amnesia. Has no idea whether he killed his wife or what he's been up to since his disappearance, but comes complete with a brand new life story as some seventies swinger. Doctors are baffled."

Michael takes a swig of Dean's beer. "So… what do you guys think this is, then?"

"Try and guess, kiddo," Dean says. "Quick, quick. Think on your toes."

"Some sort of ... of time portal? A ghost hotel that brainwashes people?" Dean swings an arm over Michael's shoulders. Michael turns toward him, already smiling, their mouths nearly close enough to touch.

"Stranger things've been known to happen, kid."

"Is that so," Michael says, low.

Sam clears his throat. They twitch and turn back towards him. Dean takes his arm back with a pointed look at Sam. "Man," Michael says, oblivious. "Disco. That is … so _incredibly_ lame. My first real hunt, and you guys take me to a haunted disco hotel."

"Hunting's not glamorous, Michael," Sam says. "It can't always be shtrigas."

"Yeah, sometimes it's clowns," Dean says. Sam kicks him under the table.

"So how do you guys know we're not going to become, like, Sly and the Family Stone, like that guy?" Michael asks.

Dean hesitates, his eyes on the girl on the stage. Not really noticing Sam watching Michael watch Dean. The girl's looking at him, making eye contact, and Dean grins. "Don't worry, kiddo. We're professionals. Nothing like that's gonna happen."

Michael scowls, worrying at the condensation on his drink. Dean tugs on his collar, then absently straightens it. Michael barely seems to notice. "Yeah? How do you know?"

"We just do," Sam snaps, snatching the journal back from Dean. The moment he does he feels stupid about it, and he stares down into his beer so that he doesn't have to meet Dean's eyes.

Last call sees them stumbling toward the Impala, the full moon high in the sky. Michael stops and stretches; Sam can hear his back pop in the quiet parking lot, as loud as the bass still thumping in the club. He glances over, catches Dean eyeing the pale strip of skin where Michael's shirt has rucked up. Dean throws Sam a smirk, bumps their shoulders together.

Michael dances ahead, slipping over the loose gravel, calls "Shotgun!" with his fist in the air. Sam laughs like it's the funniest thing he's heard all day.

"Get in the back, kiddo." Dean smiles as he climbs into the car and leans over to pop the other locks. Michael clambers in the back without a word of protest, leans against the front bench with his elbows in between Sam and his brother. Sam props his head against the glass, and Dean shoots him a look. "Don't get too comfy there, Sammy; we only got a hundred miles ahead of us."

Sam shrugs, his eyes already slipping shut. "I'll be fine." He drank more than he should've, only a hundred miles to go before he might be shooting things. Stupid to have done it; even Michael's awake and way too fucking eager. Sam can see Michael's hand out of the corner of his eye, the back of it brushing against the shoulder of Dean's jacket.

Dean glances over, waits for Sam to look back. "Fuckin' disco," he says.

"Still better than clowns," Sam says.

Dean grimaces. "Not really."

Sam swirls a finger near his temple, gesturing back and forth between him and Dean. "You think this'll hold?" he asks, too low for Michael to hear.

"Yeah," Dean says, "don't worry. It's worked before, right? We get in, get out, do a little salt and burn. Easy peasy."

"Easy peasy," Michael adds, with satisfaction, catching the last few words.

Dean grins over his shoulder. "That's my boy," he says, and Sam rolls his eyes.

The last thing Sam remembers before he falls asleep is the low murmur of conversation next to his ear. It's driving him crazy, but he can't figure out exactly why.

_  
Sam wakes up when the engine quits, the silence abrupt after miles of rumbling car. His dad is grumbling in the front seat. Sam can tell he's trying to be quiet, doesn't know that Sam's awake. Dean crawls over the front seat, half pushed over by Dad, half-awake as he curls himself around Sam. His knees tucked into the back of Sam's knees, his arm wrapped around Sam's chest. Then it's not quiet anymore; Sam can hear Dean breathing against his neck, and slips back into sleep._

_Sam wakes up when the car shakes, rattling down the center line like Braille. He's sixteen, and he can hear the girl in the front seat giggle when Dean jerks them back. Dean says 'shhhhh,' his head tipped almost too far back to see the road. Dean's mouth is open; Sam can see him lick his lips in the light from the road. He's breathing hard._

_Sam wakes up when Michael laughs, quiet as Sam's ever heard from him. It's too hot, and for a moment Sam can't figure out why. Michael's moving next to him, his elbow brushing Sam's ribs. Sam cracks his eyes open; he already knows but they think he's asleep anyway and he needs to see. He sees Dean's cock sliding though Michael's fingers, his hand that's not on the wheel buried deep in Michael's hair. Sam's face is on fire, his eyes burning as he squeezes them shut. He can hear his brother breathing, and Dean says 'shhhh'._

He smells her before anything else, before he realizes what's going on, before he opens his eyes, before he realizes he's not in the car anymore; spicy perfume, sweat, the smell of her cunt. It's in his mouth, all over his skin, and he's fucking her against -

His hands feel carpet but his thighs burn under her weight, he's standing, holding her up against a carpeted wall. He could be dreaming; her hair is long and blonde and it covers his face like cobwebs. Jess' hair was like that, thick and soft and smelling like shampoo. This girl - he can't even see her face and somehow that's the worst part - snarls her nails in his hair, hard enough to hurt, groaning with every snap of Sam's hips. He can feel the sweat on his palms, sliding over her ass, damp at the backs of her knees. It's been so fucking long and for a moment that's all that matters.

But the last thing he remembers is falling asleep in the car, Michael blathering away, and reality slams back into his brain hard. He doesn't drop her, but it's a close thing - his knees shake and then they're both going down, Sam on his knees and her legs still locked around his waist. He falls hard and her thighs tighten reflexively and when he comes it's like it's been startled out of him.

"Fuck," he gasps. His dick slides out of her, still hard, and she stares up at him through a haze of blonde bangs. "Sorry, sorry, sorry." He covers his dick with his hands, barely aware of the motion.

"S'ok, sugar," she says. "Bone Daddy always makes sure I'm taken care of." Her voice is huskier than he expected and he leans back, unnerved by nothing at all. Nothing about her pings as dangerous but there's something slick and queasy sliding up his spine, and he'll trust a feeling like that.

"Uh," he says. "Good. Wait, what? Bone - you mean Bones? The, uh, the owner? Is he here?"

"Sweetie," she says, smiling pityingly at him, two fingers dipping down between her legs, "who do you think sent me?"

And just like that, she's gone, vanished between one blink and the next like every other spirit, the room stinking of sex and shag. Sam stares down at his cock, still slick, and winces.

He gets to his feet, still cringing. He's alone in the room now and sees that the shag carpeting extends up to the ceiling, all the way around him. He's enclosed in a purple womb, purple of the hue that makes him pat his hips reflexively, searching for a knife to stab his own eyeballs out. The twin beds are pure white, uncomfortably padded-looking, fringed at the bottom. The bed nearest to him is piled with luridly colored clothing in mainly mustard tones. There are no pictures on the wall, no photographs - no TV, no visible bathroom, just two doors and enough purple to drown in.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Sam says. "Where the fuck am I?"

He sits down on the bed gingerly, nudging the clothing aside. The bedspread feels sticky and after a moment he gives up and shifts over to the table, anonymous dark plywood, at least familiar from the thousands of cheap motels they've lived in.

All that he can remember is the car. A hundred miles out, too goddamn drunk to hunt for ducks, much less disco fiends. Michael chattering away right in Sam's ear. Not even a hitch in his memory between then and now.

"I fell asleep," Sam tells the room. "Maybe this is a dream. God, I hope it's not a dream. I hope this isn't what my subconscious looks like. Dean, where are you?"

If he'd fallen asleep - if they'd reached their destination - if they were eaten by this grotesquerie of modern interior design - then Dean would be here too, maybe looking for Sam and Michael himself, maybe boogying under a disco ball. A whole lot of ifs and maybes, but they hadn't walked in here blind. They had a plan and Sam was still of sound mind and body, so their biggest gamble had worked. Now all Sam had to do was find Dean.

He nudges the suit on the bed with the tip of one finger, grimacing. It looked like his size, at least. He puts on the underwear first, white cotton y-fronts that go all the way past his bellybutton. The pants he recognizes from the worst thrift stores Dean ever dragged him to, heavy double-knit trousers, double pleated in the front. The longest crotch he's seen that wasn't worn by a member of the AARP. The sweater's a turtleneck, the jacket made of some sort of nubbly material. Square bear duds, all the way. They look like they were pulled out of a trashcan on the set of Starsky & Hutch. They're also the only clothing in the room.

He feels even worse once he's dressed. He's never worn such tight pants in his life and the suit feels slimy somehow, like its last owner jogged up ten flights of stairs and then had sex in it. He palms his cock through the pants, a poor attempt at comfort. He'd probably be able to see every wrinkle and ball-hair through these things. No help for it – maybe, he thinks, if he finds Dean, he can beat Dean up and steal his pants.

The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. He's in the polyester Overlook and he's already been sexually assaulted by a ghost, but he might as well just be stepping out with the ice bucket. Sam tugs on the hem of his turtleneck and tries to remember the layout of the plans he found online. It was all in his bag – the map, the blueprint, the names and photos of the missing – all their weapons and supplies. Fuck. Wouldn't be the first time they've walked naked into a hunt, but other than brainwashing, they've got no idea what to expect. Naked and blind after all. Hell of a first hunt, Sam thinks, and wonders where Michael is. Hopefully with Dean, which is something he didn't ever expect himself to think.

He knew the kid wasn't ready. Michael had spent the past year with Bobby and his strays, the hunters that passed through Bobby's yard, learning anything that anybody would teach him. Every time the Winchester brothers came through, Michael practically panted to show off his new tricks and skills, dogging Dean's heels for hours at a time, and it all boiled down to one thing: _take me on a fucking hunt already_. Dean had said no, and no again, and no the time after that, but the next time they were at Bobby's he'd taken Michael out for some bow hunting. They'd come back a little flushed and the next thing Sam knew they were all on the road together. Just having another body in the car makes Sam bicker with Dean like they were kids again, actually makes him miss passing through entire states with Metallica and nothing else. Michael's a buzzing insect with his endless questions and complaints, and weirdly enough, Dean's been nothing but a willing ear. He puts up with every little inanity that comes out of Michael's mouth, answers every stupid question, even chides Sam for being impatient.

"You don't even like kids," Sam had said, but Dean only shrugged.

"He's not a kid anymore and he's gotta learn somehow." Well, now Michael was going to find out what hunting was really like.

He hears Dean before he sees him. The twisting hallway blocks his view, but there's only one direction Dean's voice could be coming from and Sam breaks into a run before he can even think about it. It takes him a long time to hear the other voices that are mingling with Dean's and he skids to a halt just as the doorway comes into view, blindingly bright.

He slumps against the hallway. The jacket catches on the rough faux-stone. It's hard to think with his brother only yards away, in god only knew what state of mind. They had had a lot of theories walking into the Red Room – Michael's brainwashing ghost hotel was their best bet, in fact – but no evidence, no back up plan in case they were all separated. They didn't even think about what they'd do if they lost track of Michael.

_Fuck_ , Sam thinks. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and steps through the doorway.

He flinches back from the light. It's a physical assault after the gloom of the hall. The first thing he sees is a white railing covered in eyes. It sends a chill down his spine, and not only because the thing is fucking hideous. The railing encloses the lower level of the lobby. There are less people around than he would've thought, from the sound of it. The railing creates a wrought-iron boundary around a small cocktail lounge. It's populated by a few loungers, faded like a photograph that's been left out in the sun. He doesn't see Dean at all; his eyes sweep the room twice but the guy in the bell-bottoms standing at the reception desk doesn't even ping Sam's radar until the man turns and he sees his brother's smile.

Sam wants to laugh his head off right there, in a freaky eyeball room in a freaky haunted motel, because of course, Dean is hitting on the receptionist. She's giving it right back to him, leaning so far over the counter that even across the room, Sam can see a bit of black lace in the deep vee of her velvet top. She looks more solid than the loungers, more alive. He barely registers Michael until Dean reaches over to muss up the kid's hair.

"Yeah," he says to the receptionist, "it's been just me and my kid brother since our folks passed. It's real hard sometimes, but family's so important, you know?" His voice sounds wrong, like it's been oiled smooth and slick, and Sam never noticed Dean had an accent until it's gone. His voice is lighter too, and maybe that's what Dean would sound like if he didn't spend so much time breathing in smoke. _It doesn't matter,_ Sam thinks furiously, _that's not your damn brother._ "We're on a road trip across the states, see the world before Keith here goes off to college."

"That's so _sweet_ ," she coos and reaches for Dean, strokes long red fingernails down the inside of his wrist. When she smiles, her teeth are yellow and pointed. Sam can only see Dean's profile from where he's standing, but he'd recognize that expression anywhere, that slow smile, _you're the only person in the world right now_ smarminess.

Sam's at the desk in a few quick strides. Michael rolls his eyes at Sam and pushes their bags into Sam's arms. Dean doesn't even look over. He smirks at the girl and dangles the keys for Sam to grab. "We're in, uh – Room 15, right, sweetheart?" He pitches his voice into a stage whisper, saying, "There's five American dollars in it for you if you'll take my brother with you."

Sam drops the bags where he's standing, buckles bursting to spill clothing all over the shag. Michael gapes up at him. Dean's head whips around, the fury in his eyes dying as he looks up, way up, into Sam's face. He flinches back when Sam grabs him, both hands coming up to pry stupidly at Sam's fingers, digging hard enough into Dean's cheeks that he can feel teeth beneath them. The receptionist is swatting at Sam, trying to grab Dean's hand back, but Sam doesn't even hear her.

"Angus Young," he says, leaning close enough to feel Dean's panicked breath on his face, "you _dick_."

Dean goes as limp as if Sam cut his strings, staggering back against the counter. It saves him from falling all together when Michael launches himself at Sam, yelling, "What are you doing to him?" Sam has enough time to actually feel bad for underestimating the kid; Michael shoots right under Sam's reach and makes a pretty spirited attempt to take him down. Then there's a second pair of arms grappling for Michael, hooking under his arms and dragging the kid bodily away from Sam. Sam doesn't hesitate. Michael fights him harder than Dean did, who's staring grimly up at Sam from where he's got Michael pinned.

"Ron Jeremy," Sam says, both hands on Michael's face, whose eyes immediately roll back in his head. Dean takes Michael's weight easily, steadying the kid until he's got his feet under him. Sam's already turning, tensing for the next attack, but the girl's gone, disappeared sometime during the fight. No one else in the room has even moved. Sam can hear laughter and ice tinkling against a cocktail glass somewhere behind them.

Dean sighs, absently rubbing at the nail marks the woman left on his arm. What looked like a caress left angry red stripes up and down his skin. "That was fuckin' weird," he mumbles. His eyes are unfocused, but he manages a smirk as he drags his eyes up and down Sam's body.

"So, uh, how's it hanging, Sammy?"

Sam's face goes hot. Michael snickers, and Sam turns his head to glower at the kid, snapping, "I wouldn't be laughing if I were you."

Mikey just grins, admiring his peach-colored paisley shirt, the tan slacks just as tight as Sam's. The pink scarf around his neck is the crowning touch. "Whatever, these are killer threads. You shouldn't be so pissy, Sam – Dean's the only one that really got fucked here." He reaches out a hand to tap against Dean's flower-shaped belt buckle. Dean swats Michael's hand away before Sam can do so much as twitch. Michael, unfazed, turns and starts pawing through their dropped luggage. Dean stares down at himself, his lip curling.

"Purple," he sighs.

"Should see where I woke up," Sam says

Dean tenses unexpectedly, his hands flying to his neck. He screws his face up at what he finds: the amulet is there, hanging on a thick gold chain, but so is a lion's tooth and several religious medals. Further inventory turns up nothing else. "Dude, they took my watch and my ring and shit." He whimpers a little when his fingers encounter mustache.

"Yep," Michael agrees, from the floor. "I think they got just about everything. None of the stuff in here is ours. I've still got that charm Bobby gave me, but I think that's it."

Sam crouches down next to Michael on the floor, digging through the open suitcases. There had to be something in there that would fit him, a new pair of pants that wouldn't show his sac off to the world. The orange shag is surprisingly cushy underneath his butt. Dean stares down at them. "I loved that watch," he says mournfully.

"Could be worse. I woke up having sex with a ghost."

Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "No shit? Huh. That's a new one – oh, wait, you remember that time with Dad in Coffeyville?"

"I really, really try not to." Dean grins down at him, eyes crinkling, and Sam drops his eyes to the pile of clothes. Blushing again. He huffs out a sigh, trying to distract himself. "Everything in here was created for midgets."

"I think you're screwed, little brother."

Michael coughs. "I think we're all pretty screwed here, and not just in the ugly pants dance. Unless I'm missing something – which is possible, Sam, I _know_ – we don't have any weapons or clothes of our own. Or food. I'm hungry." He stares at them expectantly, his brows raised.

Sam shares a long glance with his brother. "Yep," is all Dean says.

Michael waits for more, frowning. "So … how are we going to beat the bad guy without any of our gear?"

Dean leans down to grab Michael's shoulder, shaking him gently. "We improvise, kiddo. It's too early in the game to panic." His grin just gets wider at the disgruntled look he gets back. "All right, pop quiz, young Skywalker. What are our options?"

Michael rolls his eyes and snaps his fingers, like a light bulb had gone off over his head. "Oh, I know! We get the hell outta here and come back with a less retarded plan?"

"Too defeatist. It'll never work. Come on, Mikey, you told me you were ready to be a real hunter. Prove it."

Sam cuts off the starry-eyed response that looks to be coming out of Michael's mouth. "I need to talk to you," he says to Dean, who goes willingly enough when Sam grabs his elbow, merely throwing over his shoulder, "I expect answers when we get back!"

There's an ornamental brick fireplace in the middle of the room, separated from the reception desk and the cocktail lounge by the eyeball railing. Sam tries not to look at it as he ducks them behind the fireplace. They're not remotely out of earshot, but it makes him feel better. Dean stares at him skeptically. "Is this the big kids conference where you tell me again that you're sick of babysitting?"

"No," Sam snaps, and then takes a deep breath. "No, I just – Dean, I think he's right. We're in way over our heads here. This was supposed to be an easy hunt for Michael's first time in the field and the first thing that happens is that we all get separated and brainwashed. This could get a lot weirder than it has already. Something's … something's just off. I can't explain it. And now we've lost all our gear -"

"We've got that freaky brain of yours," Dean says.

"Yeah, and that's the only thing that kept you guys from checking in as permanent guests. We should get Michael out of here, Dean. Bobby would murder us if he knew what we'd him gotten into. Let's just get out of here and come back without him, do the job ourselves."

Dean scrubs a hand over his head. "He's gotta learn how to do this sometime, Sam."

"There's something off here," Sam says again. "I feel like this could get really bad, really quickly. You feel it too, man. There's something – something's going to –" Sam can see Dean's face twist as he tries to think of something clever to say, some way to make the situation seem not quite so bad. Sam turns away from his brother, glares out the window instead. The room is swathed in sunlight and everything is glaringly, psychedelically bright. There's a wide, grassy field out there beyond the Red Room's front doors, faded like the old postcards that Dean used to send him in college, printed with jackalopes or long-dead motels in flyover states. He feels stoned, disconnected; maybe it really is just a dream, itchy pants and shaky knees notwithstanding, and he'll wake up and be back in the car with a sore neck and his brother. He'd even be glad to see that stupid kid.

He jerks when Dean reaches over, fingers scratching through the short hair at Sam's neck. Sam slides his eyes closed, feeling abruptly sober.

"You okay, little brother?"

He slumps against the rough brick of the fireplace. Even when Dean pulls away, he can still feel the warmth of that hand on his skin. "Yeah," Sam says. "No. I don't know."

"It's gonna be fine," Dean says. "It always is."

"What's the last thing you remember, Dean?"

Dean hesitates. He glances over his shoulder, seeking Michael. Sam follows his gaze, spots their protégé still sitting patiently by the suitcases, picking through toiletry. "The car," Dean says, after a moment. "Found the field, parked, I went around to the trunk to get our stuff out. Mikey fell asleep too, not long after you did."

"He did?" Sam asks, before he can stop himself. Dean raises an eyebrow and Sam blushes. "Nothing, never mind. I must've dreamed it."

"Dreamed what?"

"You and Michael – look, never mind."

"Uh huh," Dean says. "Anyway, I was just about to wake you guys up, and then I looked up at the – at the moon. And that's it." He makes a final sort of noise, bringing his hands together. "Next thing I remember is you grabbing me, saying the safe word."

Dean shakes his head abruptly, like a dog clearing water out of its ears. "Still waking up, I guess. It was like I was really living the dream, you know? I knew everything about that guy. How his folks died. What his brother was gonna major in."

Mikey pops his head around the fireplace right next to Sam's face, and Sam flinches back from the sudden almost-touch. "Hey Sam, do you think salt's an option here? They probably have a kitchen."

Sam frowns, confused. "We're inside of a ghost hotel, somehow I don't think they're going to have salt lying around." He doesn't add, _why are you asking **me**?_

"Lay off, Sammy," Dean says easily, reaching forward to tousle Michael's hair. "No. Salt's probably not an option here, but that's a good suggestion."

Michael smiles, tucking his hair behind his ears, and ducks back around the fireplace. Sam makes a face and Dean returns it, smirking. "Hey," he says, the smirk dropping off his face, "I've got a thought. And don't be a smartass. What do you think about it grabbing all three of us?"

Sam frowns. "Forty-six people went missing in separate incidents, but most of them came to the site with other people."

"Who all went home safe," Dean says. "There were – what – eight who went missing as pairs. No record of more than two people disappearing at a time, though."

"We're breaking pattern," Sam says.

Dean's chin dips down towards his chest. "Ghosts never break pattern," he says. "We just don't know what the pattern is yet." He stretches back against the bricks, his shoulder warm against Sam's even through the scratchy suit. They watch a woman lean against the white railing in silence. She shakes long blonde hair from her shoulders; she's laughing and blushing. Chatting with thin air, pushing playfully at someone who isn't there

"I don't think it's gonna let us leave," Dean says, his voice worn thin. "But it doesn't really matter." He looks tired, lines drawn deep in the corners of his frown. Sam keeps himself still, staring down at his brother. Dean looks up at Sam as if he's said something out loud, his eyebrows lifting. "I hear what you're saying, but even if we do get out of here, we can't bank on it taking both of us again. We have to get all these people out of here and that's priority number one."

Sam shrugs. "I guess we've been in tighter spots."

It earns him a smirk. "I can think of a few." Sam holds his gaze for a long moment. Dean looks about ready to kill someone for a cup of coffee, but his eyes are warm and confident and it makes Sam feel stupidly better about being totally screwed. As usual. "Let's do some recon, get the lay of the shag. You can start waking people up when we know everything's copasetic. And I guess we can always torch that motherfucker when we find him. It'll be fine, Sam – we'll just keep a close eye on Mikey, make sure he doesn't get his fool self into trouble. Cool?"

He doesn't wait for a response, just calls over his shoulder, "Mikey! You ready to roll out?"

Silence is the only response from the other side of the fireplace. They both stiffen, listening intently. "Mikey," Dean barks, "So help me god, if you've set foot out of this lobby I am going to fucking kill you!"

Nothing. There are clothes strewn around the suitcases, six bottles of aftershave lined up next to them, as if Michael was just waiting to show them the treasure trove. "Fuck," Sam says, staring. " _Fuck_." His hand twitches at his side, looking for the gun that he should be carrying.

"Yeah," Dean says, and sags back against the railing.

"I knew it," Sam says, kicking at a green polyester monstrosity. "I _knew_ this whole thing was fucked. Didn't even goddamn occur to us, being taken more than once. And now we're going to have to go hunt him down and just hope to god he's still in one piece and the safe word will still even _work_ on him –"

His mouth closes so quickly that his teeth click together; nothing planned about it, no conscious thought cutting him off. The hair on the back of his neck prickles. Dean is too quiet. No matter how exhausted he is, he should be up on his feet and haring after their charge, and Sam knows what happened, feels it like ice water down his spine.

"Dean?"

He knows what he's going to find when he turns around, but it's still a sucker punch to find empty space where his brother should be. The woman's still there, giggling behind her hand, and Sam wants to slap the smile off her face even though he knows she can't see him. She doesn't even know he's there, alone again and hunting naked and totally, completely screwed.

"Shit," Sam says, even though no one's there to hear him say it.

  



	2. Chapter 2

  


Nothing. No one. The hotel is huge and seems deserted in every way possible. He hunkers down for a while – finds a quiet corner and sends out his mental fingertips. The hotel feels sticky and devoid of all things, like he’s playing blind man’s bluff in an empty room. The only benefit Sam’s powers have ever given him is the unerring ability to find his brother – miles away, lost in the woods, buried alive, in Hell – and now Dean is gone.

He wants to let himself panic. The impulse is there, and Sam buries it alongside everything else he’s feeling. If the job is fucked, then he just has to work a little harder. He remembers folding military corners into his bed sheets, a hundred meals eaten by himself. Doing what he had to.

Psychically, the Red Room is a wash-out. So he switches to a more hands-on approach. He starts with the public places, the hallways, the dining room. Fifty-four people seemed like a lot when they were doing the research but the place is huge and is almost as physically deserted as it is psychically. There’s a constant buzz of noise, faint enough that he’s not sure whether it’s inside his head or out. It almost sounds like a drum beat. The few people he sees are scattered, small knots here and there, indistinct conversations about nothing. They’re as hazy as the faded postcard view he saw from the lobby, the same colors as the clothing they’ve got on. He doesn’t reach out to them. He feels like he’d pass right through them if he tried.

He feels like a ghost himself, moving through a world where no one looks at him, as insubstantial as the smell of sex and cigarette smoke that teases the edge of his awareness. The smell is in every room; it wears on him as he searches for what feels like days. No way to tell; he hasn’t found a clock in the entire place. His eyes ache from color saturation, each room brighter than the last: avocado and harvest gold and tangerine.

It’s the smell of food that really does him in. His stomach is sick, roiling with old alcohol and nothing else. When he steps into the dining room, the scent of food hits him like a dream. He very nearly staggers. He stops dead and lifts his nose up, his eyes closing; he _knows_ that smell. He can’t place it and then suddenly he does, like a lock turning. Meatloaf. And not just meatloaf, but _Dean’s_ meatloaf. Been years since he’s smelled it, maybe decades. It was an end of the week, money’s running out meal, where Dean would pulverize anything left in their fridge and throw it in with some ground chuck and some closely guarded secret ingredients. They’d eat meatloaf sandwiches for days afterwards, slathered with mayonnaise and ketchup and spoiled lettuce rescued from the dumpster.

He feels a completely new kind of fucked.

The kitchens smell like Jess’ favorite potluck contribution: green beans and bacon. It fills the dirty room the same way the smell used to fill their little apartment, that crisp, slightly burned bacon overpowering the watery beans. It’s a low blow and he feels it sick and heavy in his gut.

He feels like he’s being watched. It’s a familiar feeling for him, a prickle on the back of his skull like someone’s fingers are back there, ghosting over his skin. He’s used to being watched. There’s only been a handful of years that Dean hasn’t kept a close eye on Sam, and Sam has had a long time to get used to looking over his shoulder and finding his brother there. This feels different. Sometimes, when he little, he’d wake up and find Dad watching him instead, and the strangeness of it always scared him a little. It was never anything he could put a finger on; Dad got him a glass of water the same as Dean did, tucked him back in, left the door open only a hair wider than Dean did, but it always felt different. Like being in the forest, not knowing what was looking back at you.

In the end, Michael finds him. Sam’s dragging when he finds the rotating bar and the plush vinyl seats are too hard to resist. There are a couple pens stuck in with the swizzle sticks and he grabs one, drags over some cocktail napkins and starts sketching a layout of the hotel, of the rooms he’s visited so far. It’s not a very good sketch and not really even that proactive, but it makes him feel a little better. Makes him feel better to be sitting down; his feet are pinched in shoes that don’t quite fit and his vision swims. He can feel something scratching at the walls of his mind – Bones, the place itself, if there’s a difference. The smell of cigarettes is making him a little ill. He thinks he’d kill someone for a drink of water, much less an ice-cold beer. Probably not safe to eat or drink anything in the place; three pomegranate seeds, updated for the modern age in the form of a meatloaf sandwich.

It’s dark in the bar, dark enough that he can close his eyes and let it soothe the pounding in his head. He rests his chin in his hand and thinks, just for a minute.

He startles when a warm body presses up against his. A hand wraps around his face, thumb stroking his cheek. He can feel soft lips against his ear and a familiar voice purrs, “You look lonely, handsome.”

Michael’s on him before Sam can move, sliding one long leg up and over Sam’s lap, settling flush up against him. There’s hardly room for it in the little bar chair and he can feel the muscles of Michael’s thighs, flexing through layers of clothing, holding himself steady. “Michael,” he says, and Michael smiles. No recognition in his eyes.

His mouth is hot and wet against Sam’s, so solid that it makes Sam gasp out loud. It’s the first real thing he’s felt since Dean’s hand on his neck, hours or days or weeks ago. He can feel his brain short-circuiting, already overloaded, blood pooling in his cock as Michael pushes against him, rolling his hips against Sam’s. He fists both hands in Sam’s hair. He fits in Sam’s lap like he was made for it.

Sam sucks in a breath and Michael leans back, runs his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip like a promise, and it’s harder than he thought it’d be to say, “ _R-Ron Jeremy_.”

Michael stills. Sam can feel him breathing, slowly, long exhales against Sam’s skin. When he licks his lips, his tongue flickers over Sam’s mouth and they both flinch backwards. Sam holds still as Michael climbs off him, far less gracefully than he had been climbing on. He takes the stool next to Sam’s without looking at him. “Uh. Hey. Sam. Um. Oh my god.”

“Was it good for you?” Sam deadpans.

Michael drops his head hard onto the bar top. “I want to die. Oh my god. I am so, so sorry, Sam.”

Sam laughs. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. It – it happens.”

Michael rolls his eyes. Every bit of exposed skin is the same shade of pink. Sam can sympathize; he’s sure he looks the same. He shifts a little in his seat. “Yeah, sure,” Michael says. “It’s loads of fun to get brainwashed into thinking you’re a young runaway, doing whatever he can to survive, and go molest someone you totally look up to. You should totally try it.”

 _You look up to me?_ Sam thinks. “I woke up fucking a ghost,” is what he says instead, and Michael turns his head to glare.

“I _know_ , you said that already.” He grabs the glass he’d apparently brought with him, and tosses it down his throat before Sam can stop him. “What the hell happened to me? How did I get here?”

Sam shrugs. “I can’t find Dean,” he admits. “Didn’t think I was going to be able to find you, at this point.”

Michael’s staring at him openly now, his blush fading. “Why aren’t _you_ falling for this, man? Why’s this place letting you run loose and turning us into –” He waves a hand, searching for words. “How do you wake us up?”

Sam shifts in his chair. Their knees are still touching and he shifts away, slowly. Michael tenses, almost imperceptibly, but his expression doesn’t change. “It’s, um. It’s not something we tell a lot of people about.”

“Why not?”

“It … got us into a lot of trouble, a few years ago. A _lot_ of trouble.” Sam drums his fingers restlessly. “Michael –”

“Hey, can we leave?” Michael interrupts. “Is this anything like the nice, easy, quiet salt and burn that I know you guys had in mind? Unless you, like, actually _talk_ to me, you’re stuck babysitting me. And I know you hate babysitting, Sam, so make this easy on both of us and just fill me in, please?”

“I’m psychic,” Sam says. “I was chosen by a demon to lead an army from Hell and after we killed the demon, a whole lot of people thought I was still going to become the Antichrist, and tried really hard to hunt Dean and I down and kill us both. Mostly me. Because of the whole Antichrist thing. And then there was this whole war thing, and Dean died and went to Hell and the apocalypse almost happened and … anyway. We just try to keep the whole special powers thing on the down low. It’s a lot easier that way.”

“Oh,” Michael says slowly. “Yeah, I could see that it would be.”

“Yeah.”

Michael stares at the bar top. “So you’re … immune to whatever mind control deal is going on?”

“Yeah,” Sam says. They both stare into middle ground. “None of that sort of thing affects me.”

“That’s … gotta come in handy,” Michael says cautiously.

Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, it’s terrific.”

Michael makes a thoughtful little noise, and then turns and smirks up at Sam. “So, Ron Jeremy?”

“Dean picked them out,” Sam mumbles to the table. “Like a post-hypnotic suggestion. We, uh, we did it when you were asleep.”

Michael bangs his head back down on the bar top. “Wow. Nice. That’s, uh … respectful of my personal space. Anything else you guys put in my brain that I should know about?”

“No,” Sam says. “As empty in there as it always is.”

“Thanks a lot.” He’s quiet for a minute, staring across the bar. There are shadows sitting at a few of the tables, hazy shapes sitting in front of plates piled high with food, as if they could eat it. “So … what now?”

Sam can hear music in the background, maybe Donna Summer, moaning and groaning. He can barely think through all the noise and weariness, much less come up with some sort of workable plan. Dean’s always been better at improvisation, but Dean isn’t here. Sam’s stuck with the Robin to his brother’s Batman.

“Find Dean,” he says, at last.

He’s a little surprised when Michael leans back, his expression skeptical. “What was the plan, before we disappeared? There was a plan, right?”

“Things have changed since then,” Sam says slowly.

“Not that much,” Michael says. He leans forward into Sam’s space to make his point. It could be unconscious. “We might not have any better luck together. We could get stuck wandering around until this stupid place sees fit to give him back to us or I disappear again. We should be getting stuff done while we still can. Right? Isn’t that what Dean would do?”

Sam gropes for an answer to that. Something that’s not, _have you ever had an opinion of your own?_

“Bobby says, know everything before you do anything,” Michael continues. “So I bet the first thing he’d say to do is to do reconnaissance. And you did that when you were looking for us, right? You’ve got that little map thing right there. So we and go back and look for weapons, hiding places, exits – and then we can save the norms and go hunt this fucker down. Right?”

Sam stares at Michael. “You want to put these people above Dean’s safety?”

“Unless we know Dean’s in danger, then – yeah. Yes. Dean can take care of himself, and these – these people can’t.” He hesitates. “Is that the wrong answer?”

“No,” Sam says. “Just … an unexpected one.”

Michael pushes to his feet, his face red. “Hey, I thought we were gonna quit it with the babysitting – are you gonna hold my hand or are you gonna treat me like a real hunter?”

“You’re not a real hunter,” Sam growls, standing, “that’s the whole point. Our first priority should be getting you the hell out of here so that Dean and I can take care of this mess.” He towers over Michael, who grew up to be nearly Dean’s height, square in the shoulders, still filling out. Michael just stares up at him, chin jutted out.

“You know I’m right,” he says, steady. “Don’t shut me down just because you’re jealous.”

Sam jerks as if Michael struck him, rearing back and then stepping forward, closing the gap between them until he’s crowding Michael against the bar, pinning him back against the Formica surface. “Jealous of _what_?” he asks, his voice low.

All that Michael says is, “You know I’m right.” He gives to Sam, but only a little bit. Holding himself still, the bare knobs of his shoulders jutting backwards. His hands braced on the bar top. He’s blushing again.

They stare each other down for long moments. Sam breaks the silence first. “Okay,” he says flatly. “What do you want to do.”

Michael breathes out slowly as Sam backs off and sits back down. He follows Sam’s lead, tucking his elbows close to his body. “Wake them up,” he says. He shifts his weight, glancing up and then away from Sam. “You can do it, right? The same way you woke me up. We can’t try to fight the hotel all by ourselves. Maybe the guys here could help us – they’ve been here longer, they’d know the way around and maybe they’d be able to help us find Bones. And Dean. They’re nice guys,” he adds shyly.

“How do you know?” Sam asks. Michael just shrugs, not looking at him.

Sam has to admit, Michael has a point, at least about them being short on options for the moment. Robin’s got his uses after all. “Fine. How do you want to do this?”

Michael looks at him. “What, like, how do we pick who to save? Let’s start with someone solid, I guess.” He jerks his head towards the shadows at the table, shoveling empty air into their mouths.

Michael stays tense as they leave the bar, walking side by side. He glances up at Sam every few minutes, his eyes narrowed.

 _Jealous_ , Sam thinks. Dean could bang whoever the fuck he wanted, as far as Sam was concerned. Even if that meant some snot-nosed wannabe punk who had _no idea_ what the Winchesters had been through since they breezed through his hometown six years ago. It wasn’t any of Sam’s business, even if the kid had hitched a ride on their hunt on the strength of it. And if Dean didn’t want to talk to Sam about it, didn’t want to admit to Sam what was going on between him and some kid practically half his age – that was his own goddamn business.

It didn't matter, anyway. It wasn't going to take Mikey long to figure out that hunting was a hell of a lot harder than he thought it was going to be. He'd be gone soon enough, and then everything would go back to the way it should be.

They find their mark in the party room. It’s a dismal place, sadder than most that Sam’s found in the Red Room. It’s the ballroom of every Midwestern crap motel that Sam’s ever seen. He remembers hiding out under tables with Dean as a kid, watching shabby brides whirl around on laminated flooring while their fat relatives attacked the buffet. They’d count themselves lucky if a wedding coincided with their stay, and stuff themselves on free food and cake until Dad figured out where they were. Dean always wanted to see the first dance, no matter what the girl looked like or how bad the food was.

Compared to the rest of the hotel, though, the party room is a relief. White ceilings, red paneled walls, the ubiquitous laminated dance floor cornering a tiny upright piano. There’s no shag carpeting anywhere Sam can see; only a handful of drinkers spaced out along the bar, a few couples scattered around the tables.

“Good a place as any to start,” Michael says, and leads the way forward. He falters as they hit the first row of tables, glancing over his shoulder at Sam. “Which – who should we pick?”

 _This was your idea_ , Sam wants to say. Maybe it’s what he should say. Coddling Michael is what’s gotten them to this place. The kid’s right – Sam fucking hates babysitting, hates getting stuck with the civilians and the sooner he can pass Michael off to Dean, the better. They shouldn’t even be down here. The more people they rescue, the bigger Sam’s babysitting job is going to get.

“That guy,” Sam says, because Michael’s waiting for an answer. “Let’s do him.”

Sam points at random, singling out a man sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s solid, as far as they can see: feathered hair, tight suit, a long knitted vest setting off the pink shirt underneath. He’s by himself, elbows back on the bar, a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “All right,” Michael says. “Let’s go.”

It’s been a while since Sam’s done this. The last one was probably – he has to think – possession by a minor demon. Amarillo, Texas. A twelve-year-old girl who killed three people before they could get to her. Before that, he can’t remember. Dean would know. People and hunts blur for Sam in a way that they’ve never done for Dean, who maintains a fairly encyclopedic recollection of their careers.

God, he wishes Dean were here.

The man looks over at them as they approach, which is encouraging. Half the people that Sam’s seen don’t even seem to know he’s there, locked in their own individual worlds, slowly turning to shadows. The man looks straight at them, a welcoming grin on his face. “Hey,” he says. “You guys catch that action upstairs? Wild, man.”

“No,” Sam says. “Must’ve missed it.” The man only looks at him as Sam reaches out. His wide brown eyes are lazy, probably with drink; there are no empty glasses behind him, but there’s no bartender either. He doesn’t pull away as Sam touches him, fingertips against the man’s temple. His hand is big enough that he cradles the man’s face.

The man takes a drag off his cigarette and cocks an eye at Michael, his eyebrows raised as if to say, _what a weirdo, huh?_

“We’re here to help,” Michael says, and Sam’s about to tell him to shut the hell up when everything disappears.

He’s tried to tell Dean what it feels like, jumping into someone else’s skin and untangling everything that’s gone wrong inside it. The first thing he feels is the man’s drunk, the warmth on his face from the lights overhead. The room blurs for both of them and when it straightens again, Sam has to close his eyes – it’s his own face that stares back at him through the man’s – David’s – gaze. It’s never happened before and he feels sick for the long moment before he can manage to force David’s face away from himself.

He calls David’s name. It’s not David, not really – it’s a secret buried under a worn track of years, buried under _David_ , who is an ugly shadow that Sam can almost _see_ , twisted around the glimmering core of memory. He wraps his fingers around it, only barely conscious of his real fingers still on David’s face, digging in hard enough that the skin underneath his hand is white – and pulls.

They both stagger as the shadow stretches, clinging to Sam’s mind long enough to see everything – the endless repetition of David’s life, clinging to the bar and surveying his domain, moving through the Red Room like a dream, moving on a single prescribed orbit. And underneath, a quiet so complete that it takes Sam’s breath away.

The martini drops out of David’s hand. It lands anticlimactically on the carpet, throwing the stink of gin and vermouth into their noses. The cigarette falls from his fingers, glancing off the inside of Sam’s wrist. David sags when Sam flinches away, and the contact is broken. They stare at each other, eyes wide, Michael’s voice a whine in Sam’s ear: _Sam, are you okay? What happened? Sam? Sam?_

“Chris,” Sam says, and David gasps like it’s his first breath.

“We’re here to help you,” Michael says again, stepping close. Chris doesn’t even look at him. He pulls away from them slowly, tucking his body close as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one out. They’re quiet as he goes through the ritual of lighting it. His hands are shaking.

“Chris,” Sam says finally. “What year is it?”

He glances up at Sam, no real surprise in his face. “2001,” he says. Chris’ voice is different than David’s in the same way that Dean’s voice had changed; it’s rougher, less confident. He meets Sam’s eyes and then glances away, his gaze roaming over the party room, the shadows at the tables. “I don’t know where I am.”

Sam glances over his shoulder. All he finds is Michael, staring up at him. “That’s … hard to explain. Do you remember how you got here?”

Chris shakes his head, hesitantly, but says, “I was … I went out. To the field, the one off of I-94. Used to go there sometimes as a kid. Needed to think.” He shakes his head again, takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Had the gun and everything.”

They stare at him. “Um,” Michael says. “What?”

Chris laughs, a little awkwardly. He smiles at them, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s genuine enough that Sam could almost believe they just misunderstood. “Nothing, nothing. I got kids, man. Where are my kids? Where the fuck am I? Why do I – I remember all this _stuff_ –”

“This is going to sound really, really stupid,” Michael says, “but you’ve been kidnapped by a hotel that burned down almost thirty years ago and brainwashed into believing you’re a disco swinger. Which explains the clothes and the memories and the fact that you’re standing in a really ugly basement bar. We’re here to put a stop to all of this. We’re going to take you home.”

Chris is silent for a long moment. He looks to Sam. “Really?”

“Yeah.”

“No.” He says it simply, still smiling. He shakes his head. “Nope. I get it now. See, I dreamed about that. About going to the field with the gun and staring up at the moon until it turned to smoke. But that’s the nightmare, and _this_ is the real thing. Not Cathy. Not the kids. I dreamed all that. I dreamed that I fucked everything up so bad – the cops were coming any day, they already took Brian down and the shop’s already been seized, it was only a matter of time, you know? So that’s why I went to the field. Why I _dreamed_ I went to the field. Why I was gonna do it. But I couldn’t. I dropped the gun into this big drainage pipe and sat down on the ground and just looked up into the moon until I woke up. And now I’m gonna wake up again and be back in my _real_ life, _right here_.”

“Dude, that – doesn’t make any sense,” Michael says. “ _This_ is what’s real, you’re awake now. We’re saving -”

Chris grabs a fistful of Michael’s shirt and yanks him close, snarling, “ _It’s not, this_ is the fucking dream,” and Michael’s hands come up, closing around Chris’ wrists, and when he just says again that it’s real, it’s all real, Chris draws a fist back to hit him. Sam catches it before it goes anywhere, pushing himself between Chris and Michael. Michael goes stumbling, and somewhere in the back of his brain, Sam thinks that whenever they get out of here, he’s gonna teach the damn kid to fight properly.

Chris lands hard on top of the bar, his arm pinned behind his back, face crushed against the Formica. Sam puts his elbow between Chris’ shoulder blades and _presses_. Not hard enough to really hurt the guy. Just hard enough to tell him to stay where he is.

He expects Chris to fight him. He braces for it, something somebody really should’ve shown Michael how to do before sending him to the front lines. When Chris sags underneath him, Sam only tenses, tightening his grip on Chris’ arm.

“Put me back,” Chris moans into the Formica. “Put me back, man. _Please_ , I don’t wanna –”

His shoulders shake. Sam releases him slowly, warily, but when he steps back, Chris stays where he was put, face down on the Formica, one hand flopping at his side. “Chris?” Michael asks. “Chris?” He reaches for Chris, turns him over with one soft hand on each shoulder, and Sam frowns, watching the movement. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for Chris to grab the kid again. Michael’s still got a hand on Chris’ shoulder, as close as if he didn’t almost get punched a second ago.

Sam wants to let them be. He wants to let Michael comfort Chris; it’s usually Sam offering up dewy eyes and a broad shoulder to cry on, always has been. It’s an important job – important just to do, when he’s feeling optimistic. He knows that. And the only thing arguing against that is the itch under his skin and knowing that Dean’s somewhere and they can’t find him.

“Michael,” he calls. Michael looks up, hesitates.

“Hold tight, dude,” he tells Chris. He tugs awkwardly on his pants when he stands up. “What’s up?”

“Do you think he knows anything?” Sam asks, taking them out of earshot. Michael’s forehead wrinkles, and he shrugs.

“Hard to tell,” he says. “He’s sorta been through the wringer, you know?” Sam looks over Michael’s head; Chris is sitting in the same position that Michael left him in.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says. “And I think he’s just made our job a lot harder. Finding Dean – and finding a way to kill Bones, wherever he is, if he’s even really a part of this – is going to be impossible if we have to worry about this guy, or anybody else that we pick up along the way.”

Chris dropped his cigarette on the bar when he grabbed Michael – thank heaven for small favors; Michael’s shirt looks flammable and that would be all they’d have needed – and after a moment, Chris reaches for it, sucking the end to make sure it’s still lit. He looks over towards them, eyes unfocused, then turns and puts a knee up on the stool, reaching over the bar to grab himself a bottle of vodka.

Michael leans back, jaw set. “You always go into hunts with totally stable norms? Maybe I remember things a little differently, Sam – or maybe you put up a big stink about using a little kid as bait for a big scary monster, how would I know?”

“Sometimes you do what you have to,” Sam grits out.

“Yeah, exactly – which is what we’re doing, aren’t we? Look, okay – maybe we should’ve waited for Dean, but we didn’t and now we’ve got Chris. Who could still totally be a big help, if you’ll let him. And hey,” he adds brightly, the corner of his mouth lifting, “maybe we just picked the wrong guy. You wanna go do a couple more, see if maybe we can get one that’s a little less psycho? Since you’re still babysitting and all.”

“You are such a pain in the ass,” is what Sam wants to say. It’s falling out of his mouth even as he sees Chris tip the full bottle of vodka over his head, his brain too stupid to realize what he’s seeing. Michael’s nose wrinkles as the smell of the alcohol hits it, and that’s what Sam is looking at when Chris takes one last drag of his cigarette and touches it to his clothes.

He lights up like a torch, the fire arching up and down his body where the alcohol has soaked in. His clothing goes first, melting over the shape of his arms, and by the time his hair catches, his whole body is on fire. He staggers three paces and then goes down on his knees and the carpet goes up behind him in clear footprints. It happens _so fast_. Sam can still smell the vodka through the black smoke that pours out of the collars and sleeves and hems of Chris’ clothing, the mildewed stink of the carpet. He grabs Michael by instinct, one hand around his bicep and the other around his shoulders, whatever he can grab and keep hold of when Michael fights him, as Sam, distantly, knows he will.

It was too late by the time they turned around, by the time Michael started screaming. Chris doesn’t even look human anymore, on his knees only because the fat on his body is melting and fusing his muscles together. And still Michael fights.

The ghosts around them don’t even move when Chris finally falls, crumpling and crumbling to the ground, the motion of it sickening to see. And Sam turns away. Closes his eyes and turns his face away, turns Michael away, and that’s when he feels it. Thudding against his brain like a disco drum, or a diseased heartbeat. It slides over the back of his neck and he pushes away instinctively with everything he has. He feels the force come out of him, physical in the way it used to be, before they put a harness over his powers and locked them away – and Michael sags against Sam so abruptly that for a moment he thinks he’s actually killed the kid.

Michael’s hair is tickling Sam’s nose and through the smell of shampoo and teenager, he realizes that he can’t smell fire anymore. All he hears is the clinking of glasses and Michael’s panicked breathing. The fire’s out.

Chris is a pile of charred meat, laid out almost neatly on a platter of melted carpeting. He’s charcoal colored where his suit didn’t fuse with his skin, patches of flaky black pulled up to reveal the pink, ropey muscles underneath.

“Oh god,” Michael says, “Oh god oh god oh god –”

“Stop it,” Sam whispers. He unhooks Michael from him and they stand in silence, staring at the body. It’s still smoking. The petroleum smell of the polyester burns the inside of his nose.

“Great,” Sam says. “Just fucking great.” He says it under his breath, without thinking about it or even meaning anything in particular.

Michael turns around abruptly. He gets two steps away before he sinks slowly to his knees and vomits onto the carpet. He’s trying to hold it in – Sam can hear him choking on it, hands braced on his knees.

“Great,” Sam says again, under his breath. “Awesome.”

“What the fuck,” Michael gasps. “What the – what the _fuck_ – why would he –?”

Sam hunkers by the body. It smells even worse up close. He pats his pockets automatically, looking for some kind of tool. They’re empty, of course, which has sort of been the theme of things lately. He reaches out with his palm flat, feeling for heat, waiting to get burned. The body is cooler than it should be, lukewarm to the touch, uncomfortably slick. It doesn’t look human when he turns it over. The lips are pulled back so tightly that Chris’ teeth are all he sees, at first. They’re still white. His eyes are gone, his face unrecognizable as a face except for those gleaming white teeth.

“Sam,” Michael says, “what the fuck are you _doing_?”

“Checking,” Sam says.

“Checking _what_? He’s fucking _dead_ , leave him alone.”

“It doesn’t feel right,” Sam says softly. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“Smells real enough,” Michael says. His voice is thin. Sam’s expecting to see a smile on his face when he looks over his shoulder, but Michael’s sitting hunched and quiet, his hair in his face.

Pity flickers, bright and surprising. Michael’s shuffled far enough away that he’s not sitting next to the mess he’s made, but he makes a pretty pathetic sight. Sam watches him for a long moment. Keeps his hands to himself even though he just wants to pull Michael’s hair back from his face, talk him through it. It’s probably what Dean would do.

He sighs. Stiffens up his spine. “We’re not doing this again,” he says.

“Yeah, okay, Captain Obvious,” Michael says. “I figured.”

“Look,” Sam says. He tries for patience, for whatever Dean sees in this kid. This kind of thing is rough. His first time wasn’t much fun either. “You can’t save everyone, Michael. We made the wrong move, but there are still – ”

“Who’re you calling ‘we?’” Michael snarls. His head jerks up. “I know what you mean, Sam, so just say it.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sam says, and Michael interrupts him again.

“You didn’t _have_ to.”

“All right,” Sam says, “Is this what you wanna hear? You happy now? I knew you weren’t ready to come on a real hunt but Dean said hey, what the hell, let the kid tag along. So here you are, and guess what? It was the wrong decision. It happens. So you got what you wanted and that was the wrong goddamn decision too. _It happens_.”

Michael’s up on his feet, and Sam follows suit, slowly. He steps forward and Michael takes a step back. They circle each other for a few steps, and distantly, Sam realizes that the drums are back, low and insistent. “You knew he wasn’t okay,” Michael hisses, “and you didn’t even give me five minutes to talk to him. Don’t you ever talk to these people? Aren’t they the priority?”

“A few months with Bobby and you think you’re an expert? There are no fucking rules for hunting. This job doesn’t come with a manual. You know how old I was, the first time I burned a dead body?”

“Oh good, another tragic childhood story,” Michael says, “I _love_ those.”

“I was twelve,” Sam says, “I was a year older than you were when your brother got sick. I held the shotgun and kept watch while my dad and my brother dug the grave, and they handed the matches to me. I felt like they were finally treating me like a grownup.”

“Keep going,” Michael says. “Tell me the one about how you grew up in motels and got weapons for Christmas.”

“That’s not the fucking point,” Sam hisses, “The fucking point is that people shouldn’t have to do this, that hunting, it’s – it’s unnatural. You’re throwing your guts up, but to Dean and me, that might as well be the smell of … of apple pie. You’re not a hunter, Michael. Most people aren’t. It’s not a black mark against you or something.”

He’s lying. The smell of hair and polyester burns his nose and throat. It’s sickening. He wants to rub his face, make sure there aren’t ashes all over his skin, in his mouth.

“Oh my god,” Michael moans, “don’t bring up apple pie.” And Sam laughs, despite everything. He smothers it in his hand and wipes his face without thinking about it. His fingertips come back smudged.

Michael collapses into the nearest chair, his elbows on his knees. Sam moves closer, but Michael’s eyes stay fixed on the body. “Look,” Sam says, “I know we haven’t really – gotten along –” Michael snorts. “- but don’t shut me down just because you have a crush.”

Michael’s mouth twitches. “Sam,” he says, “fuck you.”

Sam restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Look, you’re young – go home, Michael. Finish high school. Go to college. Get a degree. Plenty of people make stupid decisions because they – think they’re in love or whatever. You’re not the first.”

“Really?” Michael says. “Really? That’s what you think this is about?” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Man, you give me, like, even less credit than I thought you did. Man. Look. You’re just, you’re so fucking far off-base that I should totally be insulted. You guys – do you guys even ever think about what you _do_ to people? You guys changed my _life_ , Sam. Blew into town and saved my family and blew right back out again and I’m supposed to just, what? Keep on keepin’ on? Fuck you, Sam. I’m big enough to make my own decisions.”

“Your decisions,” Sam says, “put you in danger. They put _us_ in danger. This isn’t a vacation, Mikey. It’s not a job. It’s a _crusade_ and it’s not –”

“I know that!” Michael shouts. “Jesus Christ, do you even listen to yourself? You’re so fucking obvious that if Dean’s not seeing it, then he’s gotta be choosing not to!”

Sam sputters, but Michael keeps going as if he doesn’t even hear. “See, I think this is a job to you,” he accuses. “You talk about saving people’s lives like it’s some kind of chore when it’s – you don’t even _know_ – I saved my brother’s _life_ \- and it was like every Christmas present rolled into one. You guys gave me a gift and you think it’s all about Dean – and don’t get me wrong, I would hit that in a _heartbeat_ if he’d let me – but seriously, Sam. Fuck you. You were never even gonna give me a _chance_ to fuck up.”

Michael’s crying, swiping angrily at his face as his voice gets wilder. Sam feels sick – from the smell or from what Michael’s saying – his stomach lurching. He wipes his shaking hands on his pants, and what comes out his mouth – stupidly, like he can’t even help himself, is “You haven’t – you and my brother haven’t -?”

Michael stops mid-rant, his hands thrown up in the air, and stares at Sam. “No,” he says. “Dude. No, we haven’t. I mean, not really anything. Don’t you guys talk at all? What the fuck.” His face is red and blotchy but he looks at Sam as if Sam’s the crazy one here. “You spend days driving around together, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Led Zeppelin,” Sam says, after a moment. “Other stuff.”

Michael drops his hand into his hands. “Jesus. Good to know, I guess. Fuck.” He looks up at Sam, tries for a smile. “All of that, and the only thing you wanna hear is that I haven’t done your brother. That’s kinda messed up, you know that?”

Sam flushes. “Michael,” he warns, “whatever you think about what’s – ”

Michael cuts him off, waving a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever. For real, I don’t even care. I just wanted you to know, okay? That’s what I’m trying to say, that I just – I’m not trying to be Superman, I just … you guys saved me and Asher and there’s gotta be a reason for it. I just want to make what you did worth it. Okay? That’s all.” He sighs and says softly, low enough that Sam thinks he wasn’t meant to hear it, “I already knew this was all my fault.”

Sam can’t think of anything to say. He stares down at his feet, at the bar, anywhere but at Michael. He doesn’t really want to hear the kid. His stomach rumbles painfully. His whole body is so heavy that all he wants to do is sit down next to Michael and put his head down for a while. _What a stupid fucking mess_ , Sam thinks. His eyes slip closed and he forces them back open. That’d be all he’d need, for Michael to disappear again.

Michael’s staring at the ground, kicking one foot back and forth. For a second he looks eleven again, slumped outside of his mother’s motel, and Sam opens his mouth to tell Michael he’s sorry.  
  
He feels it even before he sees Michael’s face change, his flushed face go white so quickly it hardly looks real – the ugly thud of disco drums in Sam’s brain, colors spasming against the backs of his eyelids. Michael scrambles to his feet, hands pinwheeling behind himself, and Sam turns.

The burned man’s skin splits apart as he slowly, carefully levers himself to his feet. It’s a meaty sound, like ripping apart ribs at a barbeque, ashy flakes sifting down onto the carpet, falling from his hands, his face. It peels as he moves, stripping away from the oily, fused mass of his suit. His lips peel back from what was his face and reveal two rows of perfect teeth and when he speaks the drums in Sam’s ears grow louder and louder, drowning out Michael whispering _Sam Sam Sam_ , because Chris’ voice sounds just the same.

“Hey,” he says. “You guys catch the action upstairs? Wild, man.”

  



	3. Chapter 3

  
They get far enough away for the air to quit stinking of melted polyester and charred meat, and then Michael sinks to the ground, scoots his back up against a wall, and pulls his knees up to his chest. “Fuck,” he says. “Shit. Jesus cocksucking Christ. Motherfucking, cocksucking, tittyfucking Christ. Okay. Fuck.”

“You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Sam says. It’s reflex more than anything; it’s _Dean_ , more than anything. Sam remembers a time when he didn’t have such a smart mouth, years and years ago. His shoulders hurt from holding Michael back, and he rubs absently at the muscle.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ this place?” Michael asks. He stares up at Sam.

“Come on,” Sam says, extending a hand, and Michael scowls.

“I can do it,” he mutters, pushing himself back onto his feet.

“Fine,” Sam says.

“Shut up.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

"Whatever."

They both turn away from the other, a silent agreement to not talk about what just happened. Sam’s shoulders are starting to ache, an unexpected stiffness in the muscle right over his heart. He’s torn that muscle before, often enough to know that it’ll feel like someone’s stabbing him in the chest in the morning – if there _was_ anything like morning in the Red Room. He had no idea that Michael was that strong.

Sam wants to apologize. He should apologize. He might still be mostly right about Michael, but he’s wrong about some of it and his dad always taught them to own up to things like that. He watches Michael out of the corner of his eye, pacing up and down the narrow hallway. They’ve got two options – going left will bring them into the main hallway of the hotel, the one that links all the rooms together. Going right will take them back to the restaurant. There’s a small, non-descript door a few yards away that probably leads to a broom closet.

“I hate this place,” Michael says under his breath. “I’d give just about anything to just be outside. I need to be out of here.”

 _I need my brother_ , Sam thinks. “What are you doing?” is what he says out loud; Michael’s turned on a heel and is striding purposefully towards the broom closet.

“Weapons,” Michael says. “Chemicals, maybe. Bobby showed me how to make bombs. Tools – sharpened broom handle – anything, really, we can MacGyver some shit up, maybe –”

The first thing that Sam thinks of, when Michael pulls the door open and they both get a look at what’s on the other side, is Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Room. The part in the movie where Gene Wilder opens up that little door and there’s all that crazy shit on the other side, chocolate rivers and huge candy mushrooms. The look on the kids’ faces. Sam read once that they didn’t tell the actors what they were about to see and that the shock on their faces was 100% real.

He’s relieved that neither of them laugh. Laughing’s the sort of response you have when something’s starting to really get to you. “Well,” Sam says. “Huh.”

The party room was underground and even if it wasn’t, they’re somewhere in the center of the hotel, and even if they weren’t, there’s no reason that a broom closet should open out onto a sunny Wisconsin day. The lawn is neatly manicured, wrapping around a center building, dotted with cheap-looking lawn games and cheap-looking lawn chairs. The grass, the hot blacktop smells are real enough but the colors are washed out in a way that’s starting to become annoyingly familiar. Another psychedelic postcard landscape.

Sam puts a foot out onto the grass carefully, testing it. Steps outside and takes a deep lungful of Midwestern air. There’s a breeze on his face but the flags, high over what should be the parking lot, are still. “Huh,” he says again.

“Dude,” Michael agrees.

“Does this feel a little … deus ex machina to you?” Sam asks, letting the door swing shut behind them.

“I don’t know what that means,” Michael says, shielding his eyes with a hand, squinting out into the bright.

“It means we’re being fucked with,” Sam says.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Michael says. “But on the bright side, I think that’s Dean.”

“Huh.”

The drums are quieter outside of the hotel, but Sam’s not going to fool himself. They’re still being watched. Most of the people around them seem to be fairly harmless, but Sam’s pretty sure that there are more active ghosts around – the woman he woke up with, the desk clerk – ghosts that not only saw Sam, but seemed to recognize him as a threat. The fact that he’s been wandering around all this time, essentially unmolested, is starting to become a disturbing thought. He wished for Dean, and here Dean is – and he’s pretty sure that that means that unless the Red Room guides him to Michael and Dean, he’ll never have a chance in hell of finding them on his own when they disappear again.

Dean is playing shuffleboard. That, in itself, is pretty novel. He’s standing off to the side, watching some pert blonde thing in slacks pushing her puck down the board.

“Come on, poodle,” he coaxes, voice carrying over the still lawn, “Saw you do better than this in Manila. Hit the 10 and I’ll buy you a whiskey sour in the bar.” His voice is rich and plummy, just like Sam’s old dormmate that asked him where he summered. Sam swallows around the misgivings stuck in his throat; he can almost feel them land in his empty stomach, but it’s easy enough to ignore with Dean finally in his sights.

Sam walks out of the shade towards the strange scene; the light is warm on his skin like a hand pressed against his face, stifling like he’s still inside the hotel. Michael trails him, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the ground when Sam turns to check on him.

Sam cups his hands around his mouth, yells “Hey, Angus!” He grins at the doofy surprise on Dean’s face when his brother about-faces. Their eyes meet, and Sam can feel the change ripple through the air when he shouts, “ _Angus Young!_ ”

Dean jerks back, slapping the heel of his hand against his face. Sam jogs to a halt next to him, hands reached out to catch him if he stumbles. Dean waves him off, smoothing a hand down the front of his pink shirt. He's still got his necklace, the amulet nestled in behind the lion's fang and the saints' medals. He's still got the mustache, too. He meets Sam's eyes after a moment, and then turns to the blonde. She smiles up at him adoringly. He squeezes her elbow and says, gently, "Hey poodle, why’nt you meet me there?"

Sam watches her go without a word.

He’s looking right at Dean but still jumps when Dean throws the shuffleboard stick. It hits the chain link around the basketball courts hard enough that they rattle in the still air. He snaps an irritable “ _What?_ ” when Sam flinches back.

"I wasn't gonna say anything," Sam says.

Dean glances over his shoulder and pauses, frowning. Whatever expression is on Sam's face, it's giving him away. Dean's eyes narrow as Michael sidles up to Sam. "What happened?"

"Nothing," Michael says, at the same time Sam says, "Waking people up isn't gonna work."

Dean's eyebrows lift. "Not gonna work? How come?"

"It's just not," Michael says hurriedly, glancing up at Sam.

Dean's looking genuinely worried, and he says again, "What happened?"

Michael stares at the ground. Sam answers for him. "They don't want to be woken up."

Slowly, Dean nods, his eyes hard. "All right," he says, pacing through them. Sam turns to keep his brother in sight. "Huh. Okay. If they don't wanna be woken up, then ... they don't wanna be woken up. What was the plan? Anybody remember? Feels like it's been fuckin' years since I've seen you guys."

"Get Bones," Mikey says dully.

"Yeah," Dean says, "It looks like that’s our only option, actually. You sure you’re okay?” He bumps his shoulder against Michael’s, casually, on his circuit back between him and Sam.

Michael meets Dean’s eyes, finally. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, “I’m okay.”

Dean nods, flicks a glance over to Sam. Clearly disbelieving. “What’d you guys find when I was out?”

They fill him in on the layout of the hotel, what Sam found in it. He tells Dean about the shadows eating in the restaurant, the smells in the kitchen. The drums in the back of his mind. That they still haven’t figured out the pattern of disappearances. Michael stays quiet while Sam talks, scuffing the toe of his wingtips over the grass, but chimes in when Sam tells Dean about the women, the ones who really see him.

"There's seven of them," he says, and shrugs when they turn and look at him. "There are seven women working for Bones."

"How do you know that?" Sam asks, and Michael shrugs again.

"They're the ones that died with him, in the fire."

Dean nods to himself like it's not a surprise, his gaze flickering over everything: sun, Sam, student. Michael studying his feet with a miserable look on his face. He's standing close enough that Sam can smell a whiff of charred meat in his hair.

Dean claps his hands together, startling them both. "Well," he says, "I don't know about you guys, but I'm sick and tired of being dicked around. If we assume we're being watched, then we can do whatever the hell we want, because they'll already know about it."

"That's stupid," Sam says. "That doesn't make any sense at all."

"Neither does disco," Dean says. "Look, new plan. Nobody's been able to find Bones yet, but we've got all these chicks around - more than one way to skin a cat, right? Hey, Mikey, Bobby ever teach you any summoning rituals?"

"Sort of," Michael says. "The theory of it, I guess. The, you know, the symbols. The array. Never actually, like, did it."

"We'll improvise," Dean says. "My bet's on the pool house - look for cloth, candles, chalk, things like that. Probably not going to find much more than that, so we're going basic and ghetto. More ghetto than usual. And nobody gets out of voice range or line of sight, you both understand me?" He sounds just like their Dad, prepping them for a hunt, and the only thing that stops Sam from rolling his eyes is the look on Michael's face.

"Maybe we'll find some new clothes," Michael says hopefully. "You look more ridiculous than ever, dude."

Dean groans. “I don’t even wanna look. Why am I always the one getting shafted in this fuckin’ place?” He quirks an eyebrow at Sam. “I can still see your nut sack, though, so I guess I win.”

The pool house roof is striped like candy or a circus tent, huge hanging blue-red-yellow rafters looking like a danger to kids jumping off the high boards. Michael wrinkles his nose as soon as they step into the vaulted room.

“Dude. It so smells like ass in here.”

It smells like every ancient YMCA they haunted as kids, like chlorine and pond muck and feet. This one has the added joy of rot, a sour reek like an old refrigerator; Sam wants to make a face too, but he doesn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction. Dean lifts two fingers and points them to his eyes, making the universal sign for _I’ll be fucking watching you_ , before motioning silently to where he wants them to go. The water in the pool is slapping against the edges like there are people swimming in there, echoing off the walls. Sam doesn’t even see the phantoms that are barely more than wisps of smoke; there’s no one else here.

At first Sam thinks it’s his own blood rushing in his ears; it takes him a few minutes hunting for supplies to realize that the drums are back.

In the end, Michael finds some candles that are stashed inside of a decrepit emergency kit. No one finds chalk, but Dean emerges from a dank locker with a bar of Ivory in his hand and a grin. Sam smiles grimly back, thinking of SpongeBob SquarePants placemats. They can’t find matches, so Dean breaks into the light fixtures for a spark to light the candles.

Dean hunkers down without a word, soap in hand; his peach colored slacks creaking alarmingly even from Sam’s distance. Sam stops him with a hand on his shoulder, feeling the breath of the hotel on his neck.

“Dean. Let’s do this outside.” His own voice is hushed, less sure than he’d like. Michael’s on the look out, but Sam can see him watching them out of the corner of this eye. Dean looks up, his eyes unreadable. “This place is too…” Sam trails off. He can’t put it into words, just spins his hands uselessly until his brother raises an eyebrow.

Dean huffs a soft laugh at him. “It’s all grass out there, Sam. The only other option’s the basketball court, and the three point lines would just fuck up the symbols.” He puts the soap to the ground, pauses thoughtfully. “’Sides, do you think it really matters where we do it? It’s their world, Sammy, no matter what it looks like.”

Sam doesn’t recognize the signs that Dean scratches into the cement. The soap leaves clean smelling curls in concentric circles. The Latin is basic; they have no idea who’s going to answer, so there’s not really any need to get specific about who they’re trying to talk to.

There’s no warning before the light shimmering off the pool turns brilliant, blazing outward until there’s nothing else. Sam claps a hand over his face to keep from being blinded, the insides of his eyes and skull screaming in pain; all he can see is red. Dean shouts wordlessly next to him. It lasts maybe a second. Sam can feel the drums booming between his ribs, one hand pressed hard against his chest like he could reach in and still them.

Sam’s eyes are streaming when he pries them open. A low, throaty chuckle rolls through the air. A woman climbs out of the symbols chalked in the concrete like she’s stepping out of the pool: wet black hair lying slick against her skull and dripping water down full breasts haltered in a gold lame bathing suit. She’s beautiful in a way that’s almost surreal, just glowing to see them. Her smile is all teeth. She greets them like old friends.

Dean’s got Michael backed up protectively behind him. Michael’s blinking too fast, his eyes darting over the new arrival like he can’t quite focus on her. She looks solid enough to Sam, but Sam’s not sure they’re not all seeing something different.

“Who are you?”

She smiles at them kindly, a touch of Southern belle to her voice when she replies, “My name is Sunday, sweetie, and Mr. Bones sent me to talk to you.”

“Oh yeah?” Dean snorts. “And what does he want?”

Sunday reaches out like she could touch him. “What we _all_ want, Dean – for you to be happy. To give you a fresh start.” Sam’s pretty sure she’s trapped inside the circle, but the air around her hands shimmers like he’s seeing her through steam. “We can see you’re unhappy,” she turns to him, “keeping secrets. No one likes that, Sam. We want to make sure you don’t have to.”

Michael pushes his way out from behind Dean. His voice is small in the echoing chamber. “Who were you when you were alive, Sunday?”

Her smile softens. “I was no one, Michael. Nothing. You’ll see. Come join us – we have a whole paradise built for you. You can have anything you want,” her voice drops as she turns back to Dean. “Anything at all, I promise.” Sam can feel the vibrations of it run right through him, and he takes a step forward before he can catch himself. He doesn't even notice, too busy watching Dean as closely as though he’ll vanish again at any second, close enough to see a drop of sweat from his brother’s hairline run down the beads of his spine. Michael’s looking at Sam out of the corner of his eye, already close enough to Dean to not have to look. Dean’s the only one watching Sunday, Sam realizes in a daze, but she can’t hurt them anyway. All that matters is Dean.

“Sorry darlin’,” Dean says roughly, “We’re not buying.” He turns to Sam and all that Sam can see is the green of Dean’s eyes, translucent like when the sun hits them. Dean snaps out his name like breaking glass, and Sam can move again.

He’s dangerously close to Sunday. She has both arms open to welcome him into her circle. Sam wants to backpedal, hide behind Dean and a gun but he’s got neither. He starts her last rites with gritted teeth. It’s been a long time since he’s exorcized a spirit like her – he’s used to demons and their animalistic grunts as each word he speaks drags them closer to the pit. Sunday just looks sadder and sadder, the smile gone from her face, until she winks out of existence like Sam’d blown out a candle.

There’s a bare second to savor it. Sam turns to Dean and Michael, and they can all hear something happen; it’s like a drawn-in breath. Sam can hear it whistling in his ears the moment before the ground starts quaking. The air wicks out of the hall sending Sam to his knees and he can hear the pool roiling, can feel the temperature jump like it’s a physical punch in the face.

He throws out his hands in sheer reflex but there’s no way to stop the gout of steam that rolls from the boiling water to send him tumbling across the concrete. Chlorine sears his throat. He can hear Michael coughing to his left and Sam stumbles to his hands and knees, scrapes skin from his palms when the ground heaves again. He can barely see through the churning mist, just glimpses as through a picture window of Dean struggling for his feet, Michael covering his face, his mouth twisted in pain.

Sam can hear the drums louder than ever, beating a crescendo in his temples until he thinks his head’s going to split in half. He can feel the shift a second before it’s going to happen; the drums repeat themselves like a scratch in the record, and he throws himself forward.

Dean and Michael grab for each other. Dean fists a hand in Michael’s collar, one thrown out for Sam, but it’s too late. They’re gone together, and all Sam can do is follow them down into the dark.

  



	4. Chapter 4

  


He hears a wet crack like it's coming from another world, and the whole world explodes in blackness. He reels blindly and falls. He can't even open his eyes. It's all he can do to roll onto his side before he pukes all over himself. He hasn't eaten since the strip club, a couple of pretzels from a bowl and it's just stringy bile that burns his throat so bad that he coughs more of it up. He tries to push himself up onto his hands, and falls back onto his face with a sharp cry.

He lays there, his face ground into purple shag. It takes a long time to make sense of what happened, that sharp disjoint between the steam and Sunday and then this shocking pain. Bones took them, and Sam tried to follow. His momentum, as he came out of - of whatever it was, Bones' teleportation or transport or rearranging the hotel itself around them, carried him into a wall. That sick crack was his skull connecting with the stone walls. He can feel the blood oozing stickily out of his forehead, that tightness that means he's gonna have a hell of a bump. If he’s lucky, it’ll be just a bump and not a concussion. He can't put any pressure on his hands because they're burned. There are already blisters rising on his palms.

He's all alone again.

He's back in the hallway, even. Not even any place at all, just the long, stupid corridor that connects the guest rooms together. He wasn't supposed to go with them, and now he's nowhere. He squeezes his eyes shut, tries to breathe deeply; the usual mid-hunt coping methods for head injuries. It's not working. The hotel is utterly silent. No voices, no music ... no drums. And that's worse than anything.

"I'm gonna find them," he says out loud. They have to be watching him still, listening in, even if the drums are gone. "I will. You can't hide them forever."

There's no answer, and he adds, quietly, mostly to himself, "And you're wrong about me. I'm not like that."

"Sure you are, Sammy," a voice drawls, right next to him.

Sam bolts upright and regrets it immediately. He gets a few feet away before his hands give out, but it's far enough to see her properly. She looks solid, more real than the other girls, even the blonde. She's sitting with her back against the wall, knees pulled up to her chest. The collar on her khaki trench coat is pulled up around her face, but she stares at him with uncomfortably wide brown eyes. She's not like the other ones, as different from them as they've been from each other.

"Don't call me that," Sam says tersely. "Which one are you? Tuesday?"

She grins at that, top and bottom teeth showing. "Just call me your gal Friday."

"All right," Sam says. "Friday. Where's my brother?"

"Safe," she says. Her voice is husky and warm. It'd be reassuring if he didn't know what she was. "We wouldn't harm him. We're not here to hurt people, Sam."

"You are, though," he says, "These people don't belong here."

"We make them happy," she says.

"You make them _sick_. I'm not _like that_. I've never thought that."

"You're not the first person to tell me that." She pauses. "How long, Sam? How long has it been eating away at you? Did you just look at him differently one day, or was it a slow sort of thing, over time? Lord knows you've had enough of it together. We know what you've been through, Sam. What you've _both_ been through. Bones sees into people's hearts, sees what they keep most secret and safe. This is what he sees in you. No one should have to keep a secret like that, Sam. Not by themselves."

"I'm not in love with my brother," he says, and doubles over, his stomach heaving.

He feels her small, cool hand slide over his neck, rubbing. "Sam," she whispers, "it's okay. Everything's okay."

He pushes her away. "That's why you take people? You take people with secrets?"

She nods. She stays close to him, her coat swinging open as she leans in close. He can smell her. She smells warm and alive, no perfume, no soap - just the heat of a living body up close against his own. "I'm going to kill him," he tells her, choking. "I'm going to tear this place apart."

She smiles. It's gentle, like Sunday's smile as she opened her arms. "There's nothing bad in giving in, Sam. You've been fighting for so long. You deserve this. You deserve _him_."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he whispers. There's blood in his eyes and he wipes it away with shaking fingers.

She stands and holds a hand out to him. "Come on," she says. "I want to show you something."

He's expecting her to lead him someplace, but the door that she turns to is the closest. She glances over her shoulder at him before she turns the knob, something in her eyes that makes him drop his own.

The room is blue. Blue carpet, blue shelves, a monstrous blue bed in the center, hiding an open shower behind it. He's never seen a bed like it, not in any of the places they've stayed: carpeted walls nearly up to the ceiling, enclosing the circular bed, covered by a velour spread. He stares at the bed critically, examining it, because it's easier than looking at what's inside.

They're curled around each other. The bedspread rising with each deep, contented breath. It's rucked up around their legs, enough that Sam can see the way Dean's feet fit in between Michael's, the crook of Dean's knee. Michael's mouth pressed messy and open against the hollow of Dean's throat. The room's dim enough that Sam can pretend not to see the sweat on their skin, not quite dry yet.

They're beautiful together, and seeing it hurts just as badly as he thought it would.

"This is what you think should happen?" Friday asks, softly. "Because it will. Probably sooner than you think. Your brother jacked Mikey off in the fields behind your friend's house. Didn't even get his pants down all the way. They've been sneaking around on you the whole time you've been on the road."

"That's not true," Sam whispers. "Dean would tell me."

"Maybe," she says. "Maybe not. You think that what happened in the car was really just a dream?”

Sam sinks onto the edge of the bed. There's enough room for all three of them, but he sits awkwardly at the very edge of the mattress, his shoulder pressed against the wall. Just watching them.

"No one knows you better than he does. No one loves you better than he does," she says, softly, and Sam laughs.

"You're not telling me anything I don't know already." Dean's foot is almost close enough to touch, and Sam's fingers twitch. "Friday, do you remember dying?"

Her eyes widen, and she pulls back a little. Then, hesitantly, nods. "We knew Bones was going to set the fire. We got dressed - Tuesday and me - and came down to the dance floor. Monday put "Maggot Brain" on repeat over the PA system, turned on all the lights and the disco ball. We sat and talked while he set the fire in the kitchen and in the rooms, and then he came back to us and locked us all in. There was - there was so much smoke. And I was afraid, but it didn't hurt."

He nods. "It didn't hurt for me, either. It was the easiest thing in the world. You just ... let go. And everything stops, and nothing hurts. You give in." She smiles in recognition, but he keeps going. "But this – giving into this – you have _no idea_ what it would be like. I can't lose him. Not again."

"Sam," she says, surprised, "but that's the whole point. That's why we're here. To make sure you never have to face that, ever. You'd never lose Dean - not if you were here, with us."

"Why me?" he asks, twisting to look up at her. "Why do I get the choice? Why not him?"

"You're special," she says, stroking his hair. She's close enough that he can feel her breasts pressing against his shoulders. "You're different."

"Friday, go away," he says, and she does. She bleeds away, color first, then her body, and Sam's alone. Dean's snoring, muffled where his face is buried in Michael's hair. Dean's always been a snuggler. Never minded hair in his mouth or sweaty, sticky skin. They haven't shared a bed since Sam was 5'6" but he still remembers what it was like. He reaches out and strokes Dean's ankle with the back of his knuckles, his thumb passing slowly where hair gives way to smooth skin. Dean's foot is dirty and deeply calloused. It doesn't really matter.

He wants to think that, next to Dean, Michael looks impossibly young. But he doesn't. He looks older than Sam knows he is, old enough to be exactly where he is. A mouth that was too big when he was a kid - in more ways than one - grew wide and sensual. He's chewing it in his sleep. He's long, coltish where Dean tends towards square, and Sam remembers that rangy body pressed against his own, Michael's cock hard against Sam's belly.

And it's too easy to linger over what Friday told him. Too easy to picture it; maybe Michael pressed against Bobby's back fence, jeans around his knobby knees, Dean's hand in between them. Twisting his wrist as he jerks Michael's cock, maybe passing a thumb over the head of it. Telling Michael everything he wanted to do to him or maybe just - quiet the whole time, panting into the side of Michael's neck. Kissing him. Maybe when Michael came, his fingers dug into the back of Dean's neck, the same place they're curled now.

Sam wipes at his face without really feeling his eyes prickling, shaking his head. "Only making it harder on yourself," he whispers. "Get it over with."

He doesn't bother with the safe words. He probably never needed to. Doesn't even need to close his eyes to see the shadow on them, just a thin layer of misdirection covering up that core of light. He brushes the shadows away easily, memories sticking like jam on his mental fingers. A roadmap of their life together. Hard years on the road, dusty tramping across the Great Plains; Michael just a hitchhiker at first, later so much more. Settled, years later, a small house at the end of a dusty road, home enough that they're missing it even though they've only just arrived at the Red Room. Waking up together every morning, falling asleep curled just like this every night. It's close enough to his own fantasies that Sam actually laughs.

Dean wakes first. His breathing goes quiet and deep. Slow, like the drums, but so different and comforting that Sam could cry. The sound is so familiar that Sam knows exactly when Dean will open his eyes, how he'll look at Michael without really seeing him for a long moment before he's really, really awake. And that's exactly the way it happens, until he pulls back a little and sees Sam. Dean's eyes widen, just for a second. "Sam," he says, very softly.

Sam tries to smile. Tries to make it look like his heart isn't out on a plate. Dean opens his mouth to speak and then closes it again. Pulls away from Michael enough to prop himself up on one elbow, look Sam in the eye. It's been a long time since Sam hasn't known what's on Dean's mind just by looking at him, but it's impossible to read him now.

"Sam," Dean says again.

Michael shifts in Dean's arms, making little muffled sleep noises. He leaves off chewing his own lip to press his mouth against Dean's chest, pushing closer with his whole body. Dean stiffens, and that's when Michael opens his eyes.

He pushes Dean away so quickly that even Sam jumps. Dean falls awkwardly onto his back and Michael's momentum carries him back into Sam, whose hands come up instinctively to catch the boy. Loose limbs and bed-warmed skin against the blistered skin of his palms. Michael jumps, squeaks, "Sam?"

He pulls away and Sam lets him go, still held by Dean's eyes. He nods when Michael twists around, not trusting himself to speak, and then Michael reaches for him. A brief spasm of pain hits him low in the gut, and then he gets what Michael wants; he's reaching for the knot on Sam's forehead, seeing the blood there. Sam holds still while Michael cleans his face with the edge of the blanket, his other hand holding it over his own lap. He's blushing and he doesn't look Sam in the eye, and when he sits back next to Dean, he doesn't say anything. Doesn't look at either of them. Dean hasn't moved, just glanced slowly back and forth between them. The silence is unbearable, but the thought of breaking it is even worse.

"They led me here," he says, finally.

"Why?" Dean asks, and then, "Wait, you talked with them?"

"Because they can," Sam answers. "I know what the pattern is. Why they take people. Because they have secrets."

He's not looking at Dean, so he misses the way that Dean's eyes widen, the way he leans back unconsciously. It wouldn't have helped him anyway, to see his brother's face; whatever Sam might have seen is shuttered away so quickly that it might as well have never been there at all. "Oh," Dean says, colorlessly. "Oh. That's why they don’t want to be woken up."

Sam nods. He wonders where Friday went, whether they're listening in. If Bones is hearing every word they say. "You tried to," Dean says, and Michael flinches. "That's what you didn't want to tell me. Something happened."

"Yeah," Sam says. "Something happened."

He hadn't noticed Michael folding in on himself, his face getting redder and redder, but Dean does. "Mikey," he says, nudging him with his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Fine," Michael says, curling his knees up to his chest. "Just peachy."

Dean glances at Sam, frowning. "Michael, what happened after Sam found you?"

Michael hunches his shoulders. "He found me," Sam offers, and Dean cuts him off with a short shake of his head.

"Mikey," he says, scooting closer. The blanket slides down around his hips. The light glints off his necklace. The amulet is back on its thin cord, the saints’ medals and lion tooth vanished. "What happened?"

For a second, Sam doesn't think Michael will answer. He's twisting his head back and forth against his knees, his hands clenching. "I found Sam," he says, his voice low. "Talked him into waking someone up. So we did. And he. The guy didn't want to go back. So he poured a bottle of vodka over his head and lit himself on fire. Died and then got right back up like nothing happened. This fucking place won't even let you die if you - if you don't – if it doesn’t want to let us go. He got back up and he's probably still walking around like that, all –" He makes a noise in the back of his throat, small and pained. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have woken him up. Even if you rescued him, he’d be dead now and I shouldn't even fucking _be here_."

Dean had put a hand on the back of Michael's neck, but Michael shrugs him off. "We should've just found you and gone home. I shouldn't be here. I should be with my brother, not fucking up your hunt and putting everybody in danger and killing Chris. I let Asher down, I let Bobby down, I let you guys down. _Fuck_." He's crying, trying to hide his face from them, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, but when Dean's hand settles back where it was, he lets it stay there.

"Mikey. Dude. We can't go home," Dean says, his mouth twitching towards a comforting smile. "That's what Sammy's saying. We're all stuck here, like it or not. Me and Sam have ended up in a lot of places we had no business being. Doesn't mean no good ever came out of it. You're a hunter now, and we'll end this place together."

"Fuck this place," Michael mutters. The look he gives Dean takes Sam out of equation. He can see, really see the life that the Red Room gave them, stamped all over their faces. And then Michael smiles. "Hey, after all that - this is how I finally get to see you naked. Fucking figures, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Dean says, and pulls Michael close enough to whisper something too low for Sam to hear - and press his lips to the skin behind Michael's ear. It's a small movement that's mostly hidden in Michael's hair, and that's probably, Sam thinks, why Dean did it. There's so much that Sam has never seen between them and he wonders if it's like this. If they've been this way all along.

"So, what do you think, Sasquatch?"

Sam blinks. They're both looking at him, their shoulders touching. "What?" he asks.

"Let's go find some kryptonite, hunt this fucker down," Dean says. "We need some clothes first."

"I burned my hands," Sam says, offering them up as proof.

Dean hisses through his teeth. "In the steam? Fuck, Sammy - that's no good. Can't hold a weapon like that."

"It's fine," Sam says softly, "I don't think it matters much. I don't think that's the way to beat the hotel."

He has to speak softly. If he doesn't, he's going to start laughing and he won't be able to stop. It came to him all at once, like the answer to a puzzle. He can remember doing hundreds of them as a kid: crosswords, word searches, anything to kill a thousand hours trapped in a hot back seat. Letting his brain relax until the letters rearranged themselves. Dean was always better at it than Sam was, better than their Dad, had always lived on a much more instinctual level than either of them. Sam had to work for answers that simply presented themselves for Dean and now, he can only blame his own nature for not seeing the truth earlier.

It had never been a secret that Michael wanted Dean. If that had been all Michael was hiding, he would've been left sleeping in the Impala at the edge of an empty field. Sam had known all along what was kept most safe in Michael's heart, had picked and nagged at it for as long as the kid had been with them: that bone deep conviction that he wasn't a hunter and never would be. Michael had hung on every one of Dean's words but taken all of Sam's to heart, and seeing it all poured out into Dean's open arms - _I shouldn't even_ be _here_ \- only leaves a sour taste in Sam's mouth.

Michael's secrets are as obvious as Dean's are obscure. As obvious, Sam realizes with a dull sort of shock, as his own. Which is pretty fucking funny too.

"You don't think so?" Dean asks, frowning. "Why not?"

Because the Red Room wouldn't even let them die if it didn't want to.

Because Michael broke open and pulled himself back together and he's still here.

Because they have no weapons.

And it's that thought that turns the final tumbler and throws the gates open wide. Dean said it first, said it right in the beginning, when the Red Room was just another hunt and Michael was just some kid tagging along and Sam wasn't in love with his brother. _We have no weapons_ , Sam had said, standing in the lobby and watching Michael rifle through luggage. And Dean said, _we have you_.

"Sam?" Dean asks, warningly. Sam looks up.

"They're just going to keep taking you two," he says. "Over and over again. The only way I've been able to find you is when they let me. But I think I can change that."

Dean's eyes narrow. He always was better at puzzles. "Whatever you're thinking ... don't, Sam. Don't do it."

Sam looks down at his hands. They ache as if they were on fire. The skin under his palms are filled with blood. Nothing's funny anymore. "I don't have any other choices, Dean. I can't take the one they're giving me. This is all that I can do."

Dean pushes up to his knees, the blanket falling away from his body, but Sam is faster. Dean's slowing down before he's halfway across the ridiculous expanse of bed, his face growing slack and stupid. He rears back, shoulders straight, blinking slowly, and Sam lets himself look. The broad strength of Dean's thighs. The curve of soft skin between hip and belly. The dimple on his shoulder where Sam shot him, so much smaller than the starburst on his back. His brother's cock hanging flaccid between his legs.

Sam lets himself _want_.

Michael doesn't even move; his eyes widen and he folds sideways, going to sleep as obediently as if Sam had told him to out loud. It's as easy to replace their dreams as it had been to brush them away, and Dean turns. Drops back onto his hands and knees and crawls back to Michael. Folds his body around Michael's. It doesn't hurt any less to see it again.

He watches them, for a long time. It's almost as peaceful as sleeping himself. He's exhausted. Worn down, every part of his body aching and sore. No way to tell how long it's been since he's slept. Since he's eaten. He's so hungry that he feels sick with it. But it feels good to watch.

He has to crawl up on the bed to touch them. It hurts to do it; his hands are stiffening up, that first agony fading to aching shock. He reaches for Dean first. The heat of his brother’s skin makes his palms burn. He traces Dean’s eyelashes with his fingertips, so softly that it barely hurts. He rubs a thumb over Dean’s mouth, careful of the blisters on his fingers, feels the barest touch of teeth. He hesitates, and then pulls back a little, slides the back of his knuckles down Michael’s belly, tracing the soft skin. His hands throb in time with his heartbeat.

“Friday,” he calls. He doesn’t worry about waking Dean and Michael. He buried them deep. He’d put them back at that little house if he could, but all he can do is make sure they dream of it. That they’ll wake happy.

He turns, and she’s there, sitting along the carpeted TV shelf as if she never left. The sleeves of her trench coat cover her hands, folded together against her bare thighs.

He stands and she follows suit, closing the distance between them. “Hi, Sam,” she says. “Seen enough?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I have.”

She holds out her hand for him to take.

She has enough time to flinch when he grabs her, but not nearly enough time to get away. He lifts her by the shoulders and throws her into the shower. She hits the wall as if she was actually a person, crumpling against it. He’s on her before she straightens, pressing her back with his body so that he doesn’t have to use his hands, her face against the tiles.

“Sam,” she gasps. The coat tangles around her body and she struggles inside of it, against him, her ass pressing back against his dick, “Sam, you don’t have to do this.”

He starts the exorcism and she laughs, her voice deeper than before, raspier, and he sucks in a breath. “This what you wanna do to him?” she says, thrusting her hips back against his. “You wanna fuck your brother, Sammy? Make him swallow your cock? You want Dean’s little slut for yourself? Bruise him up and send him back?”

He’s holding her, one hand on her shoulder and the other at her waist, forcing her up against the wall, her toes barely touching the ground as she kicks. There’s a smear of blood that her hair is sticking to but he doesn’t believe it, doesn’t believe in its reality. He keeps chanting, dumbly, his mouth shaping words that he barely even hears, and he keeps going even when the shower goes on. The suit sticks to him, water streaming down the back of his collar. It makes the clothing feel uglier, slicker than it did already. It’s hot enough to burn wherever it touches his skin. He grits his teeth where it sprays his hands.

Her face changes as if it’s melting under the water, her eyes filling with shadows, the ball of her nose broadening, her cheekbones lifting. She bares her teeth at him, both of them shouting, screaming. “You wouldn’ta been happy with a handjob, wouldja, Sammy? You were in that field, you’d have pushed Dean right over that fence and fucked him up the ass. Held him there however you could. No, you woulda grabbed him by the hair. Twisted his head all the way back until he could barely breathe. That’s the way you want him, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” he growls before he can stop himself, the exorcism stopping dead in his throat. He pushes his hand under her chin, forces it up and away from him. It takes barely a thought, a twinge, to sanctify the water that’s falling on them, and she screams loud and long. “Get out of her while you can, Bones.”

Spirits are anticlimactic. Demons howl, they fight with everything they have, but ghosts go with a whimper. Sunday faded away to mist but Friday drops, instantly boneless. Dead weight in his arms. Without the scrabbling of her bare feet against the tile, the room is abruptly, shockingly silent. The drums are gone, but Sam knows better to think that they’ll stay that way. He lets go of her, and she slides sideways for just a moment before crumpling. The body falls with a wet, heavy sound to the shower floor. The water slides into her open eyes.

He shuts the water off without moving, staring down at the body. He’s completely dry as he steps out of the shower. He glances down at himself; double-knit polyester becomes well-tailored linen. He straightens his collar. Tugs his cuffs into place. The suit is still mustard. He’s still playing in Bones’ sandbox, after all.

He can feel Bones coming for him. The anger that Sam felt when Sunday was exorcised is nothing compared to this.

“Come on,” Sam whispers, spreading his arms open wide. The ground rumbles under his feet and he hunches his shoulders, braces his feet. “Come on, motherfucker. Come and get me.”

The room goes blurry and dark, like the shadows are infecting the air, and even the walls shake. And Sam takes it all in, folds himself into ashy darkness.

  



	5. Chapter 5

  


He comes shaking and shivering out of the dark. The smell of smoke is the first thing that his brain really registers, still tangled up and tired. Smoke. Acrid and sweet, the mingling of a house fire and a cigar. “Bones,” he rasps, coughing. There’s fire in his lungs, he’s burning up, he’s _dying_ – and then he opens his eyes.

He’s sitting at a table, shoulders loose, wrists crossed on his lap. The light above his head is the only one around, blinding him. He can sense the depth of the room he’s in, the empty air flowing around him. There are cards spread across the table, and as his eyes wander across them – counting instinctively, the way Dad taught them to – he realizes that he’s not alone. A card flutters to the table’s smooth surface, tossed by a careless hand. Two of diamonds.

He can’t see Bones’ face. It might not be there at all. The hand flickers out of the darkness and returns to it, black enough to be a shadow itself. Ace of spades. He thinks maybe Bones is part of the shadows, bleeding into and out of him, part of the smoke that hazes the light overhead. That row of white teeth he can see might as well be a Cheshire grin.

“At last we meet, star child,” Bones says. His voice is everything that Sam was expecting. He says it again, drawing the words out like honey, “At _last_ we _meet_.”

For a moment, Sam can’t believe that it worked. That he drew Bones out, no more girls, no more mouthpieces – just the man himself, right within Sam’s reach. He shakes his head hard enough that something twinges in his neck – a brief spike of pain that arcs itself up along his cheekbone. “It’s _Sam_ ,” he says, and launches himself forward.

His knees hit the table, scattering cards and spilling drinks, and then he’s across. He braces himself for impact, to send Bones crashing to a floor that he can’t see – and then there’s nothing. He’s falling, tumbling faster and faster into endless darkness.

And opens his eyes. Back at the table. Arms braced on the arms of the chair. His cards still spread across the table, waiting to be read. A full drink at his elbow. “What do you want from me?” Sam rasps, even though he already knows.

Bones leans forward, into the light. High cheekbones, a broad nose. The same face looking through Friday’s before Sam killed her. His eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

“Let you slip your leash too long. Pups get hurt that way,” Bones says. When he speaks, the words meander, quick and then slow. Each syllable deliberately measured. Listening to him talk, Sam can see why Friday chose to burn with him. “You look like you’re in bad shape, star child. How’d you get that way, hmm? Gotta tell the management when you’ve got a problem, we fix it right away.”

He reaches across the table and gathers Sam’s hands in his own. Sam tries to pull away, sluggishly, as Bones bends over his burned palms. “Pup hurt his paw,” he croons, and breathes smoke over them, as thick as if he’d drawn from a cigarette. It flows over Sam’s skin like a wet mouth sucking hungrily on his fingers, a tongue curling over the sensitive pads of his fingertips, and Sam groans aloud. Bones grins and releases him.

Sam holds his hands up to his face. The blisters are gone, right along with the pain. He squeezes his eyes shut, breathes deeply. It wasn’t a cure-all; his shoulders ache and his fingers are trembling with hunger. The knot on his forehead throbs and he’s sleepy enough that a concussion is still possible.

He flexes his hands and tries not to cry with gratitude.

Bones is regarding him sympathetically, the slightest quirk of a smile on his mouth. “You look hungry. You hungry?”

Sam looks down at the table. There’s a meatloaf sandwich in front of him. He can see lettuce poking out from under slices of wheat and if he looked close enough, he’d probably see even the corn flakes that Dean used to use to stretch the meat. His mouth waters and he looks away. “Would that feed me, really?”

Bones smiles. “Absolutely.”

Sam pushes the sandwich away and it disappears between one blink of his eyes and the next. “What do you want, Sam?” Bones asks. He sounds genuinely curious and Sam frowns, suspicion prickling at the back of his neck. “Monday? Tuesday? Wednesday?”

He sees eyes glinting in the darkness, and when he breaks his eyes away from Bones, shapes form around them. Breasts and hips changed into soft curves in the smoke, arranged on couches, chairs, all around them. Five bodies. Two gaps where Friday and Sunday should be. Bones’ women, frozen like statues just waiting for someone to breathe life into them.

Sam looks back to Bones, whose lips pull back from his teeth in another grin. His teeth look sharper this time, losing Cheshire friendliness. “Just kidding,” Bones says. “You made up your mind. Our service ain’t up to _your_ standards.”

“I’m not going to give into you,” Sam says. “There’s nothing you can give me that’ll make me change my mind. You can’t control me and sooner or later, I’m going to find out what your weakness is and I’m going to destroy you.”

Bones throws his head back and laughs at that. The sound of his voice breaks apart and scatters, like cockroaches fleeing from the light. “You think you’re the first to fight me? You think you’re the only one who broke free, who didn’t take what we have to give? This is the end of the line, Sam. No midnight train, no second chance. No one makes it past me.”

“You want me,” Sam says, “Friday told me. I don’t know what you want or what you think I can do but –”

“Don’t want anything from you,” Bones says. “Leastways, nothing I don’t want from everyone else.”

That stops Sam cold. He feels arrogant and stupid. “But,” he says. “Friday said the choice was mine. That I was special.”

Bones shrugs. A shiver goes through the girls. “She lied. Only thing that makes you special is that we might have to work a little harder. That’s all. Your brother’s the same as my girls. You think they know what’s going on? You think they get a choice? They’re all a part of me and sooner or later – borrow your phrase, thanks – you’ll be part of me too. So will your brother. So will your little friend.”

“You feed on these people,” Sam says. “That’s how you keep this place going. You feed on secrets. You were psychic when you were alive, weren’t you?”

“We got a lot in common,” is all that Bones says. It’s hard to focus on him, Sam’s vision slipping, his head dropping down to his chest.

“No,” he slurs, “ _No_. Even if – even if you’re right – even if I want my brother like, like _that_ – you can’t make me give into you. You can’t make me into someone else. I’ve made up my mind. I’d rather die than do that to him.”

Bones’ lip curls and Sam flinches back, helpless. “I ain’t no devil offerin’ you a _deal_ , star child. You play high and mighty all you want with yourself, but you ain’t fooling me. It ain’t strength of will keeping you from taking what you want – it’s fear and you know it. You’re too _weak_ to take him. To take either of them.”

“I’m not,” Sam says. “I’m not, it’s _wrong_. Dean – ” He falls silent. Staring down at his lap, and his healed hands. The drink at his elbow tempts him in a way that the sandwich couldn’t. He looks up, meets Bones’ gaze behind those glasses. He can feel the strength of the man pouring off him, almost thirty years after his death and still a force to be reckoned with. He could blame what he says next on that – on Bones’ charisma, on the fact that he already knows what Sam is about to say, but the truth is that Sam is tired, and a secret is a heavy thing to keep.

“I’m in love with my brother,” is what he says. His voice is soft, and he says it again, tasting the sound of the words. “I’m in love with my brother. I’ve tried so hard to – to just. You’re right. You’ve been right this whole time. I’m in love with Dean.”

His whole body shakes. He takes a deep breath, and then another, fighting them past the knot in his chest. Bones is silent, his fingers steepled together in front of his chin. Waiting. Sam pulls himself back together slowly. Careful of the soft spot above his heart, where realization has hit him like a physical wound, or the lancing of something long infected.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bones says, finally. “Good for you. Have a drink on the house. You think you’re still at the point where your dreams come true? You killed my _girls_. This isn’t about giving you what you want.”

Sam slams his hands down on the table. The light is clearer now, the girls’ bodies more distinct. There’s something on the edge of his hearing, taking place of the drums, still too far away to be sure of. It could be inside his head. It could be the concussion. “What do you want from me, then?” he shouts. “That’s all I have, that’s all my secrets! You wanna hear that I want to fuck Michael too? Sure – why not? Who wouldn’t?”

Bones only grins, his teeth like an animal’s, sharp and threatening. “I want you to suffer,” he says. “Makes it all the sweeter. No more options, star child. Just a whole world of punishment. You want them back – then take them. Take them from me. They’re down there. They’re waiting for you. And if you’re strong enough to take what you _want_ – then you can have them.”

Sam reels away from the table. There’s ground underneath his feet now, carpeted, and when his chair falls it makes no sound. The noises are clearer now, below them – slick noises, breathy noises, and a shiver works its way reflexively down Sam’s spine. “No,” he says.

“Bye-bye, child,” Bones says, and wriggles his fingers at Sam. “Don’t keep ‘em waiting, you hear?”

His fingers clutch at the shag banister. It’s unbearably soft against the new skin on his palms. Each step is harder to take than the one before it.

He’s been in this room before. The Gallery, where Michael found him, picked him up at the rotating bar. Where they watched the shadows clink silverware on their plates, as if they could eat. The shadows are gone, and the room is full of people, tables and chairs shoved carelessly aside.

At first, he doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. The light is dim and the room is full of smoke and noise. All he can smell is perfume, sweet and sticky. They don’t look human anymore. Impossible to separate individual bodies and faces from this sweating, humping, grunting monster. They’re all around him, fucking on top of toppled tables, up against walls. He hears a sound of breaking glass as clutching hands smash artwork to the ground.

And they’re in the middle of it all, as he knew they would be. A clean path to them cut out of writhing bodies. The only bed that he can see, surrounded by broken tables piled high around it. The bed itself is as round as the one he left them sleeping on.

He freezes up when he sees them. Somewhere, in the far off reaches of memory when things made sense, he hears Dean berating him. A second’s hesitation can cost a hunt. His hands twitch at his sides. He can’t breathe.

Bones said, _they’re waiting for you_. And they are. Dean up on his knees, Michael behind him, one hand wrapped around Dean’s cock, lazily jerking him off. The other hand holding Dean’s head back, baring his throat, teeth marks just starting to bruise under Dean’s chin. Michael looks up when Sam approaches, and grins. Dean's eyes are only slits, shadowed by his lashes, his mouth open and wet. Sam looks for Bones in their faces and sees only his brother, only Michael, who swipes his thumb over the head of Dean's cock and then pushes it between Dean's lips, forcing him to lick it clean. Dean's head rolls back against Michael's shoulder, his whole body shuddering.

"I got him ready for you, Sam," Michael says. He blushes when he says it, his eyes smoldering. "He hasn't come yet. We saved that for you. Fuck him hard, Sam. That's the way he likes it."

Sam gasps, his hand pressing down on his dick without even thinking about it, without even feeling himself move, and he stutters out, "A - Angus, Angus Young," all he can think to say. Can't even look at anything but that slow twist of Michael's wrist, the thrust of Dean's hips to meet it. Dean's cock, red and angry and so fucking _hard_ -

They untwine themselves from each other and reach for him, tugging on his sleeves, running their hands up underneath the jacket, and Sam says _Angus Young_ over and over again, _Ron Jeremy_ until Dean's mouth closes over his and Dean's tongue is in his mouth, he's kissing his brother, Dean is kissing him, Michael pulling Sam's jacket from his shoulders, biting and licking Sam's neck.

His hands are raised. His cock aches, his whole body aches. He feels humiliatingly exposed, the orgy around them unbearable, a soundtrack of the worst sort of joyless porno, and there is no excuse for what he knows he's going to do. No midnight train, no second chances. No more Dean and Sam.

He lets them pull him down onto the bed, lets Michael unbutton his shirt, his pants. His clothing melts away as if they were never there in the first place, Sam’s doing or Bones, it’s impossible to tell. Can’t concentrate long enough to wonder, Dean’s hand on his own cock, Michael’s hands on Sam. Can’t think at all.

Part of Sam wants to see recognition in his brother’s face. Some small glimmer of consent. Dean looks drugged, flushed. Michael tells him to go to Sam and he does, dropping down on his hands and knees and crawling up Sam’s body, bracing himself on Sam’s hips, his hands on other side, his face close enough to Sam’s stomach that he can feel Dean’s breath on his skin. Hot puffs of air, and Sam stares at the crown of his brother’s head and his hands come up and push Dean down.

The touch of Dean’s tongue to the head of his cock drags all the air out of Sam’s lungs, one painful exhale. It hurts even worse to suck air back in, to breathe as Dean’s mouth works its way down his cock.

The bed shifts as Michael knee-walks close to them, fingers knotting in Dean’s hair, and Sam feels more than sees the shudder go through Dean’s body. Michael’s other hand reaches under Dean’s mouth, wraps his hand around Sam’s cock and follows Dean’s motion that way, jacking Sam in time.

It lasts just as long as it takes for Sam to really feel it and then he’s scrambling to push Dean away, scrambling not to come. His hand knocks against Michael’s and then he’s squeezing the base of his own dick tightly, his whole body drawn up tense.

Blind gratitude when that mouth pulls away, when there’s nothing but air and cooling spit on his cock, and then that’s even worse. Dean’s gone, and all that Sam can think is that he’s gone again, that they’re both gone and this time it’s for good and Bones will never give them back.

He forces his eyes open. They haven’t gone anywhere, and relief is sharp enough to dull what he sees. Michael’s hands on Dean, twisting him close, Dean’s mouth red and open around his dick. Sam growls without even feeling the noise build in his throat, barks, “ _Dean_!”

Dean flinches like Sam’s slapped him on the ass, and they turn to look at him. Michael’s fingers stay on Dean’s neck, but he lets Dean pull off his cock. Dean reaches for Sam, rubs a hot hand along Sam’s thigh, over his cock, smoothing over the hair on his belly, but Sam shrugs him off. Pushes Dean away just far enough to get his knees under him, get back on Michael’s level. He grabs the kid by both shoulders, hard enough that his ribs compress a little bit. Hard enough that Michael whimpers.

“You touch him when I _say_ you can,” Sam snarls, right in Michael’s face.

And Michael gives, but only a little. Looks up at Sam through his hair and smiles. “It’s all for you, Sam. Whatever you say.”

He shoves Michael away. Michael lands awkwardly, pushes himself back up on his knees, Dean between them. They watch him. The lines of their bodies drawn tense and tight. Sam can see the orgy out of the corner of his eyes, all around them, watching them. He wants to be past the point of caring, past the point of choice. And maybe he is. Maybe he made this choice when he killed Friday, when he took that first step into Sunday’s arms. Maybe the decision was made the first time he looked at Dean and felt shame flood hot and heavy into his gut.

Even as he thinks it, he shakes his head. It’s too easy. He’s never taken the easy road, and every day has been a choice and it’s his own feet that led him here.

He sways. His breath catches. They’re waiting for him. He can still walk away, end this all right now. His cock is heavy, bobbing a little as his muscles flex. Dean’s eyes fix on it and his lips part, just a little. Sam can still walk away.

He can’t look away from Dean’s mouth, still wet from – he can barely think it – from sucking Michael’s cock. From sucking Sam’s. Just the memory of it, of that mouth on him makes Sam’s skin itch, makes him forget all about the bodies around them, everything but how bad he fucking wants to see his come on Dean’s lips, see it drip off his chin. How bad he fucking needs to put his dick back in Dean’s mouth and watch him choke on it.

“Dean,” he says, and then, “Michael.”

They come to him, as he knew they would. They’ll do anything for him, to him, and whether they really would, out in the real world – it doesn’t matter anymore. They sidle close, reaching out to pet him, smooth their hands over his back and chest, biting and licking at each side of his throat. His arms encircle them both. “Dean,” he says. He breathes his brother’s name into Michael’s mouth. “Dean, suck him.”

They share a look, and when Dean leans forward, Sam grabs him by the back of the neck, fingers curling in hard enough to hurt. Dean’s shoulder bangs against his and Dean looks up at him, startled. “I didn’t say kiss him,” he hisses, “I said _suck his cock_.”

Dean’s lips, parted just enough to show the barest line of teeth, curl slowly into a smile, and Sam thinks, _this is my brother_. It gets easier every time he thinks it, and his hand slides up into Dean’s hair, supporting him instead of restraining, and Dean opens willingly for him. His mouth is as soft as Sam always knew it would be, his teeth hard shapes behind them, and he groans when Sam bites him – his lower lip, his chin, the soft space under the line of his jaw.

When he releases Dean, it’s with a hard look at Michael, and this time, it seems to stick. Michael keeps his hands to himself as Dean sinks down onto his hands and knees and lips Michael’s cock into his mouth. He sucks it down slow, glancing up through his eyelashes to check Sam’s reaction. Sam puts a hand to the back of Dean’s head, pushes him fast enough that Dean chokes a little, flutters a hand out to steady himself on Michael’s thigh.

He can feel the muscles bunch in Dean’s neck as he slides up and down, the tension in his shoulders from holding himself steady. He looks up at Michael, who’s staring down at Dean with his mouth open. He looks as drugged as Dean, and when Sam snakes an arm around Michael’s shoulders and tugs, his head rolls back onto Sam’s arm, and when Sam kisses him, he can feel Michael yielding. Not all the way – Michael kisses as hard as he fights and it surprises Sam even now, in the middle of all this – but it’s enough.

And as Michael gives, Sam takes. He marks Michael as he marked Dean, biting his mouth and shoulders and neck, hard enough that blood rushes up to the surface of Michael’s skin as soon as Sam releases him. He kisses Michael like he could win the war that way. He’s lost in it, in making Michael surrender, submit, lost enough that when Dean’s tongue traces the underside of his cock, he almost jumps away from the touch. Michael catches Sam – steadies him – and Dean pushes forward, licking and nuzzling as he jerks Michael’s cock with his other hand. Sam’s almost afraid to touch him. _This is my brother._

Michael touches Sam’s face, dragging his eyes up, and when he leans forward, Sam lets him. Stays still as Dean switches from one to the other, sucking and fucking with his fist, as Michael kisses Sam. This time, it’s soft. Thoughtful, as if Sam could break at any time even though Michael’s the one shaking.

He can see when Michael’s about to come, hears the little groan that Michael tries so hard to keep between his teeth, and he pulls Dean off his cock, holds them both steady as Michael shoots onto Dean’s face. Dean _groans_ for it, like it’s his own personal money shot, opening his mouth for whatever Sam will let him have. Sam rubs Michael’s dick around Dean’s lips even though Michael’s squirming away from him, over-sensitized and boneless, and pushes his own fingers in when Dean’s tongue comes to lick it away. He pulls them out of Dean’s mouth just long enough to smear them through the come on Dean’s face. He makes Dean lick them clean.

Sam lets Michael go. Michael falls back against the bed gracelessly, his long legs folding uncomfortably underneath him. He reaches for Dean almost absently, just stroking a hand down Dean’s bicep as Sam pulls him upright.

“Michael said he got you ready,” he says rapidly. “Is that true? Are you ready for it?” It’s not what he really wants to ask. He wants to ask Dean if he really wants it, but can’t bring himself to say it. He knows what the answer would be, so he asks the closest thing he can. “Are you ready for it?”

Slowly, Dean nods. He turns his head and nips at Sam’s fingers. “Find out.”

With a snarl, Sam pushes Dean down on the bed, shoving his brother’s thighs roughly apart. He reaches between Dean’s legs, tugs hard on Dean’s balls, and then snakes his fingers underneath them. He _is_ ready. Slick and open enough that Michael must’ve fingered him loose, ready for Sam’s cock. He takes two of Sam’s fingers and then an awkward third, fucking himself wider.

Sam’s heart is pounding hard enough to kill him. His whole body’s wound too tight as he lines himself up. He’s going to fuck his brother. Dean’s eyes glitter as he stares up at Sam, his hands fisted in the bed like he’s waiting for Sam to say he can touch himself. Sam’s going to fuck his brother.

He slides in slow. Takes it easy. Shallow thrusts at first or else he’ll just come right there, the world’s shortest foray into incest. His hands are trembling where they’re holding onto Dean. He can hear Michael moving closer to them – can feel the bed dip underneath his weight – but there’s nothing that matters as much as the hot press of Dean’s thighs against his hips, that measured sink into Dean’s body.

The last thrust knocks all the air out of his body and Sam pitches forward, catching himself on his elbows. It’s all he can do to hide his face in Dean’s shoulder and just – breathe through his bared teeth for a little while. Dean’s head and shoulders are pressed against the mattress and the rest of him is pinned in Sam’s lap, clenching around Sam’s dick. He felt loose on Sam’s fingers but he’s so tight around Sam’s cock that it _hurts_.

He feels Dean’s hand stroke through his sweaty hair. Sam jerks at the touch, looks up into Dean’s face. “S’okay, Sammy,” he whispers.

“Dean,” Sam says, and then drops his face again, embarrassed by the little broken noise that came out with it. “Dean, I can’t – I can’t do this to you, it’s…”

“S’okay, Sammy,” Dean says. “It’s good. Make it good, Sam.”

“Tell me you want it,” Sam whispers. His eyes are wide and unseeing, Dean’s shoulder too close to really see. He can feel the texture of old scars underneath his cheek. “Say it’ll be okay when you wake up, _please_ – I know it’s not –”

Dean tilts Sam’s face upwards, until they’re eye to eye. His stubble burns against Sam’s chin. Michael’s hands smooth down the line of Sam’s spine. His mouth is warm against the back of Sam’s neck.

Dean smirks, and oxygen floods back into Sam’s lungs and then back out as he laughs, the sound of it startled out of him, and then he moves. He digs his fingers into Dean’s hips, holding him down, fucking into him. Dean arches underneath him – grabbing Sam, his fingers pressing hard enough to leave marks under Sam’s shoulder blades – and it takes Sam a minute to get what Dean wants.

Michael helps them rearrange, helps them get Sam sitting up against a backboard that, vaguely, he doesn’t remember being there, his legs sprawled out, Dean straddling him, facing away. He holds Sam’s cock as he lowers himself back onto it, his shoulders tensing as it goes deeper and deeper, until Dean’s thighs lay heavy and hot against Sam’s. Michael swings a knee over Sam’s and they stare at each other over Dean’s shoulder. Michael’s close enough that Sam could kiss him again, if he wanted to. Michael reaches for Sam, strokes long fingers over Sam’s temple.

“You’d be good for him, wouldn’t you?” Sam asks. He whispers it. Says it in his own head first and then out loud, leaning into Michael’s touch. Michael frowns, the corner of his mouth lifting like he doesn’t really get it, whatever Sam’s saying to him, and Sam closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the headboard. All he can do is hang on to Dean’s hips as Dean fucks himself on Sam’s cock, all his weight on Michael, whose fingers tangle with Sam’s on Dean’s hips. They move Dean together, Michael’s other elbow just visible, flexing in a way that makes Sam think Michael’s got both of their cocks, jerking them together as Dean rocks back and forth, so fucking deep that it’s all he can do.

Sam knows when it all changes. He’s been waiting for it, for the big reveal. He was long past the point where all his dreams come true and when Michael stiffens, his eyes going wide and shocked, his rhythm stuttering – when he _looks_ at Sam and _sees_ Sam, his mouth falling open to say something or because he’s somewhere past words entirely – it’s as if Sam’s been bracing himself for impact when he should’ve stayed loose enough to roll with the punches. And it is a punch: a sharp, swift pain that’s amazing in its physicality. He did what Bones told him to; he took what he wanted and he’s had them both and his cock is buried in Dean’s ass, and Dean and Michael will hate him forever.

And Dean’s hand closes around his wrist, hard enough to hurt, Dean’s jagged, bitten fingernails digging into Sam’s skin, and the noise Sam makes echoes Michael’s. Dean looks over his shoulder, his eyes rolled back in his head to meet Sam’s – and Sam gasps, “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ ,” and Dean growls and thumps the back of his head against Sam’s collarbone, and then lurches forward, capturing Michael as he tries to get away. He keeps one hand on Sam – the other holding Michael by the nape of his neck, kissing Michael even though the kid’s making sounds like he’s gonna cry, Dean’s hips still sawing back and forth on the edge of Sam’s control. He takes Michael’s hand – Sam sees him do it, sees the motion of it – and puts it back where it was, back on their cocks, and _squeezes_.

Dean comes first, whining from it, the noise high and startling to Sam, so much more submissive than he would’ve imagined. Michael tumbles after him, sagging against Dean, his face pressed against the side of Dean’s neck, hidden. He gasps – and that’s what does it for Sam, two more thrusts and then his whole body shaking with orgasm, strung out from it.

And for a long time, no sound but ragged, panicked breathing as they all, carefully, don’t look at each other. Sam’s cock twitches, still inside his brother’s body, and Dean flinches. He nudges Michael, and they clamber awkwardly off. Sam’s dick makes a wet noise as it slides out of Dean’s ass. He stares down at his body, watches Dean and Michael out of the corners of his eyes. Dean moves to the edge of the bed, elbows balanced on his knees, Michael up against the wall, his legs drawn up against his chest. Something hard and selfish in Sam’s heart is glad of the three feet of space between them, and he barely notices the wall against Michael’s back that should be open air.

They’re alone, in a room that Sam hasn’t been in before, underneath a huge wooden canopy. Sam’s eyes wander over the die-cut Cupids, the plastic chairs, and it’s the only thing in this that doesn’t make perfect sense to him. No broken pictures or sweating bodies, nobody standing in a ring around them and pointing fingers. Just the three of them in this ugly room, no more hideous than some of the places that Dean’s checked them into over the years. Somehow, that almost makes it worse, like this – this _thing_ could’ve happened anyway, some drunken mistake or tempers stretched too far. There are bruises on Dean’s arms and Sam doesn’t even remember grabbing him there.

Dean pushes himself off the bed, his mouth set in a grim line. There’s a slickness on the back of his legs that’s probably Sam’s come leaking out of him. There’s come on his face, almost dried now, little flaking patches of white. It’s on his cheekbones, his throat. And what Sam thinks of – despite everything – is that he should make Michael lick Dean clean. He can’t help the stifled moan that he makes, and they both look at him. Dean’s face is slack. His eyes bright and dead. He meets Sam’s gaze without expression, just a blank wall that Sam can’t look away from. _Say something_ , Sam thinks, and Dean turns away.

He rummages in the dresser, turns up handfuls of frilly lingerie in oversaturated colors. “Dean,” Michael says, softly, and blushes. He looks so _young_ and for a minute, Sam can’t even remember how old Michael is. His face is still flushed and _god_ , he’s still a teenager. He has to be. He’d still be in high school if not for them. Nursing a crush on a teacher or something, instead of – instead of this.

He shouldn’t be here, Sam thinks. Not because Michael isn’t strong enough. But because he shouldn’t be within a hundred miles of people like them. Like Sam.

Dean’s shoulders sag, his hands braced on the top of the dresser. A yellow bra trailing down between his fingers. Sam wants to make a joke. It’s right on the edge of his teeth, that they can never find any fucking clothes in this place. “I can …” he says, trailing off. Michael looks at Sam. Dean doesn’t. He lifts the bra to his face like it’s a washcloth and scrubs absently.

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. Dean turns around. His eyes skitter away from Sam and land on Michael, but there’s something living behind his eyes again, and Sam will take what he can get. Something funny in there, somewhere, and safe in his own head, Sam thinks: _I’d do it all again. No matter what happens, I wouldn’t take it back_.

And that – that really _is_ funny.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Sam says. He’s crying, messy and panicked, and he says it again even though it’s a lie and he’s not sorry. “I didn’t mean it, I’m sorry.” He covers his face with his hands. His whole body is shaking.

Dean sighs. His bare feet make no noise as he steps back across the shag and sits heavily next to Sam. Sam twitches back from him, scoots back up against the headboard. Doggedly, Dean follows.

“Sam,” he says. “Sam, come on.”

“It’s not okay,” Sam says. He sounds like an old woman and he knows it, his voice shrill and scolding. “It’s not okay, don’t fucking patronize me, Dean. I _raped_ you. I raped _Michael_. It’s not fucking _okay_.”

“I wasn’t gonna say that it was,” Dean says. He scrubs a hand over his hair, rubs his fingertips over his cheek.

Sam gulps air. “You – you’re not?”

Dean shakes his head. Sam can feel him hesitating. Dean stares down at the ground, at his hands. He shakes his head again. He looks back up at Sam, his eyes steady. “I knew,” he says, and Sam feels the words wash down the back of his neck like ice. “I knew the whole time, okay? That’s my secret, I guess. So if you wanna blame anyone, blame me.”

“That’s stupid,” Sam says, trying to breathe. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah, well.”

“You what?” Michael says. He crawls towards them on his knees, dropping down on the other side of Dean. “You _knew_?”

“M’sorry,” Dean says.

Michael waves a hand, staring off into middle ground. “No, it … actually sorta makes sense. You … I thought …” He trails off. “Huh.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“God, enough with the apologies,” he says, and Dean laughs, a little startled. Michael twitches at the sound. His hands are shaking where they’re wrapped around his knees. “Look,” he says, “Look, I’m not gonna lie. This is pretty fucking weird. But it’s not the end of the world, is it? I mean – we’re in a disco ghost hotel that kidnaps people so that they’ll fuck each other. And that’s, like, our day job. That’s pretty fucking weird too.”

“That is such a cop out,” Sam mutters.

“Yeah, well, I don’t think that giving into a downward spiral of self-loathing and guilt is making the situation any better,” Michael snaps, and then sags back onto the bed. “God, Sam, I’m sorry. See, now _I’m_ doing it. Fuck you both. _Oh my god_.”

Dean snickers. “See?” he says to Sam. “That’s why I keep him around. He’s funny.”

“Funny _looking_ ,” Michael mumbles.

Sam rolls his eyes, but he manages a smile when Dean tilts his head. He knows what they’re trying to do, and he almost says as much. But maybe Michael’s right. Sam can feel the cracks like they’re a physical thing, but if he can hold it together long enough to get out of here – to get back to their own lives – he thinks maybe he can just take things as they come.

Dean’s hand is hot against the back of Sam’s neck. He wants to shrug it off. He doesn’t deserve what they’re offering him. Instead, he scoots closer and lets his head fall on Dean’s shoulder. Might as well. Dean’s hand stays where it is, awkward until he shifts it to Sam’s shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. It’s not at all like the last time Sam touched Dean – no expectation of anything more. But the stroke of Dean’s thumb over his arm feels like – like Dean’s rubbing off dead skin, splitting all those cracks wide open, leaving him raw underneath. When Michael’s hand joins Dean’s, a warm pressure on Sam’s back, Sam’s not really surprised. He shuts his eyes – and then opens them again, struck by something.

“Dean?” he asks. “When – when did you wake up?”

All he can see from where he is is just the corner of Dean’s mouth, the slightest lift of a smile, and it’s all the response he gets.

  



	6. Chapter 6

  


 

"Okay, so, bear with me," Michael says.

"We have so far," Sam says, and Michael rolls his eyes.

"Just _barely_ , Sam."

Michael’s a lot more sure of himself now that they’re all clothed, back in their own things, the same clothing that they were wearing back in the real world. Sam had closed his eyes – imagined them in the bar, the smell of Dean’s leather jacket, the way that Michael’s shirt had ridden up too high when he stretched. He didn’t have to do anything to put them to sleep and he didn’t have do to anything to give this back to them, but he snapped his fingers anyway beforehand. He figured a little warning was the least he owed them.

"This shirt was red," Michael said.

"You look good in blue," Sam replied.

Dean sprawls in a plastic chair. He’s clean now – Sam took care of that, too. Dean looks almost normal now, freshly scrubbed, disheveled like he was in the car for a long time. He opens his mouth to referee, but Michael’s talking again, heedless.

"I think we’ve made a fundamental mistake, here," Michael says, "in thinking that we’re in a real place."

Sam and Dean exchange a look. "We’re not, though," Sam says. "This isn’t the real world. Obviously."

"Yeah, you think that, but we’re still operating like it’s a real place. Like there are rules we have to follow, like we have to … find shit to get our job done. We looked for chalk and salt and shit when Sam could’ve just wished them into existence or something, like he did with the clothes. This isn’t _real_."

"How does this help us, though? Dreams aren’t real either, but you can still die in ‘em," Dean says.

"Yeah, but you can also change things, once you realize that you’re dreaming. Chris said – " He breaks off, looks at Dean. "The guy that died. Or didn’t die, I guess. He said that the last thing he saw before he woke up was the moon. He was staring up at the moon, and the hotel took him. I think Bones is the moon. That was all I could see until – until I woke up just now. I was dreaming of the moon. But I don’t think that it’s the moon, not really.”"

"What is it?" Sam asks, and then he gets it, so abruptly that he feels stupid. "It’s a disco ball, isn’t it?"

"Yeah," Michael says. "I think we’re inside Bones’ dream, that everything we’re seeing is just part of him. This whole time, I’ve been hearing the guitars –"

"Drums," Sam corrects

"I don’t hear drums," Michael says. "I hear guitars."

Sam hesitates. "Guitars? You mean, like – disco music? Because I heard that too, coming from the dance floor or something –"

"No," Michael says, frowning. "Guitars. There’s no goddamn guitars in disco and anyway, it’s inside my head.”

"It’s the solo from "Maggot Brain"," Dean says. "Funkadelic. The title track. Pretty fucking amazing stuff. Probably too advanced for a college radio kid like you, Sam."

The words ring some sort of bell in Sam’s head. He grabs at the thought as it passes him by, frowning over it. Can’t think where he would’ve heard that phrase before.

"What now?" Dean asks. "You said Bones told you that if you did what he wanted, he’d let us go, right? But we’re still here."

 _What_ I _wanted_ , Sam thinks, but he doesn’t say it out loud. Wouldn’t have gotten the chance anyway, because a voice says, too loud and unexpected, "Actually, guys … you’re free to go."

It’s the redhead from the lobby, the check-in girl. She’s sitting across the table from Dean like she’s been there all along, a cigarette trailing from her fingertips. Her voice is rough, like she’s been smoking ever since she died. None of them startle, not even Michael, and some part of Sam is proud of that.

"Really," Dean says. "Just like that."

"Just like that," she says. She uncrosses and recrosses her legs, the dim light glistening on her long black boots, on her red nails. She scatters ash on the table when she gestures. "We got what we wanted, just like you guys did. Room still stinks of it, don’t it?"

"You’re a lot less nice now that you’re checking us out," Dean says, grinning.

"Hey, you get what you pay for," she says. "Was it good for you too? Cuz Sammy here had one whale of a time."

"Hey," Dean growls, the smile on his face going savage. The tension in his body is a threat. "Don’t you fucking talk about my brother, you bitch."

"My name is Monday," she says, pressing the tip of her thumb against her bottom lip as she smiles. "And you’re awfully touchy."

"If that’s what you guys think," Dean says, "then you’re dumber than I thought. Sam’s my _brother_. You think anything can change that?"

And it stuns Sam, whips all the air out of his lungs, all thought. He doesn’t want to hope.

"Sam," Dean says, not looking away from Monday, "I need a gun."

Sam can do that. The gun that Dean pulls out from under the table is double barrel, sawed-off 20 gauge. A Winchester, of course. When Dean levels it at Monday, it’s close enough to brush her eyelashes.

"Oooh, scary," she says. "Come on, guys. You can’t do shit to me. You’ve got as much chance of killing the boss as spit on a hot skillet. Just count yourselves lucky and go."

"What about all the people in here?” Michael demands. "What happens to them?"

She rolls her eyes. "They keep on, kiddo, like always. They’ve got a better shake in here than they ever did out there. You can’t do anything for them. You’re not gonna get a better offer from us."

"Yeah, it’s a pretty good deal," Dean says. "We’re gonna take a pass on it, though. Thanks anyway. See, you’re not real. If what my trusty sidekicks are telling me is true, then you’re just part of the bigger picture, not the saucy little redhead I see in front of me right now. You’re just some kinda … metaphorical construct. A fetishized zombie Barbie, left over from some dead dude’s imagination. Don’t get me wrong, that’s pretty cool. I’d have, like, ten of you if it was me. But to quote the philosopher … there is no spoon." He pulls the trigger.

Her brains paint the walls. Dean leaps out of his chair, rubbing furiously at his face. "Holy shit! It’s in my _nose_ , Jesus fucking Christ –"

Fetishized zombie Barbie?" asks Michael.

Dean blows his nose into his hand and turns to glare at Michael. "It sounded better in my head," he says, and turns to Sam, raising his splattered arms. "Sam? Little help here?"

Sam barely sees him, staring at the wall. Construct or not, whatever was animating Monday is slick and glistening, and that’s what brings memory into sudden focus: the blood underneath his stretched, swollen palms, still wet from steam. "Maggot Brain," he breathes.

Dean hesitates. "Okay," he says. "Kind of harsh, but I can see what you’re getting at."

"No, no," Sam says. "That’s how they died. That’s why you’re hearing the song. It was playing when they died."

"Huh," Michael says. "So what the hell are you hearing, then?"

"His heartbeat," Sam says slowly. "They’re not drums at all. Fuck, Dean – that’s his weakness. I know how we can kill him."

Dean nods, already understanding. "Then lets burn this metaphorical motherfucker to the ground."

 

They set the fire by hand. There are gasoline stoves in the kitchen that they drain and soak up with rags. The shag carpeting goes up like dry kindling, billowing black smoke that chases them through the hallways. It feels like the last mile of a marathon; tired, dirty, every thought and action concentrated on crossing that finish line. The smoke stains Michael’s hair black and they don’t talk. They work in circles in spite of all logic and self-preservation, lighting the pool hall, the rooms, moving quickly towards the beating heart of the Red Room.

"When we get out, I’m eating the biggest goddamn cheeseburger I can find," Sam says at some point, only managing to get oil in his mouth.

It’d be easier to set the fire himself – find the exit, assuming that it’s still open now that Bones is three girls down, four to go, and force Dean and Michael to safety while Sam burned. But even if he was sure that it would work – he wants to do it by hand. He wants to see the Red Room gone. It’s a primal thing that they’re doing, and raising his hands and imagining the hotel gone is just too sanitary. It’s as unacceptable as pretending that he didn’t just fuck his brother and their friend, when he can still feel them on his skin.

The dance floor is so much smaller than Sam’s expecting. They huddle in the doorway and look in for a long moment, their torches held carefully away from each other. It’s a small room – a disco ball slowly revolving on the ceiling, a shag-covered DJ booth. Chipped, cheap tile where the carpet stops. It’s a horrible place to have died.

"You sure this is it?" Dean asks roughly. "We’ve got maybe a couple of minutes to make it back to the lobby – gotta use ‘em or lose ‘em, guys."

"This is it," Sam says, staring up at the disco ball.

Sam has been to evil places. Rooms and houses and bright clearings where death has happened and in its passing left a wound in the world so deep that it stops you in your tracks, every better instinct screaming to get away. Those places exist, and stay that way even after the Winchesters salt and burn whatever they can get to.

If the Red Room is evil, than it’s a banal sort of evil, swollen with sweaty desperation instead of true suffering. For all they know, Bones killed his girls because his club was going bankrupt, because disco was dying. It would make a sad sort of sense, Sam thinks, looking out at the empty tables, if Bones had refused to face the truth in the same way all of his victims had. This way it would never matter what the hotel looked like to outsiders. It would always be _his_.

"I always thought disco was sort of like lying," Dean says, as they step into the room, lifting their feet up like there’s a line of salt across the door. They saved the last can of gasoline for this room, and Michael takes it from Sam, sticking the gun Sam gave him in the back of his waistband. He moves towards the edge of the room, works on emptying the can. The fumes are unbearable almost immediately in the small room and Sam can smell the fire catching up to them. A couple of minutes was an optimistic estimate. "Nobody _killed_ disco," Dean says, throwing the chairs into a heap in the floor. "Something better just came along, and disco died because all shitty music dies eventually, when there’s no soul or honesty in it."

"I always just thought you hated dance music," Sam pants, the sleeve of his jacket pressed tightly against his mouth.

"That too," Dean says. "You ready?" The light from the disco ball above their heads throws them all into soft-focus. It’s getting harder to see as the first smoke starts leaking underneath the closed doors. Sam didn’t want to close them, too aware of history repeating itself, but Dean just gave him a look and swung them shut. The disco ball makes Sam feel like he’s at a party, chips of light shivering across their faces even as the smoke gets thicker.

"Yeah," Sam says, gritting his teeth. "Gotta hurry."

The look on Dean’s face is grim. "Already?"

All that Sam can do is nod. The heartbeat is deafening, the only thing louder than the fire. Michael’s mouth is open and screaming and Dean is screaming back and Sam suddenly can’t hear either of them. He nods again when they look at him, everything he has wrapped around the heartbeat, keeping it away from them.

It was Monday that completed the puzzle, in more ways than one. Her unshakable belief that they couldn’t hurt her, against Sam’s unshakable belief that Dean could. They’d won, and the shotgun sucked parts of her skin and hair back into its barrels and it was a stench that Sam could probably still smell, if he got close enough to Dean.

A battle of wills, and it makes a stupid sort of sense to Sam. He imagines Bones locked out of his own home, pounding on the glass doors that line the lobby, that postcard landscape stretching out endlessly behind him, and maybe that’s what’s happening. The girls are easier to deal with, what’s left of them. Easier when he sees them all as facets of one thing, of the same too-vivid dream that has kept Bones alive all these years.

He wishes he could know more about Bones. The thought occurs to Sam a lot, has ever since he started questioning the way he was raised. Why some people stayed, _could_ stay. The force of personality that it would take not to fade to the sort of ghost that walked hallways and stood in lonely windows, to become something malignant and sick.

A battle of wills on an entirely different scale. Bones refused to die even though he was the one that set the fire. Sam wonders if he regretted it, afterwards, when it was too late to stop the fire. Whether it was before or after the girls died. He can almost see it – laid on top of Dean and Michael like frames from a different movie. The girls spread around the room. Tuesday the first one to die when the ceiling started to cave in. Sunday and Friday melting together. Monday the only one to yank on the doors, trying to get out.

He flinches when Michael pinches him, hard, twisting the skin on Sam’s bicep between his fingers. It’s a low blow, a big brother move, but Michael only looks at him when Sam grabs him. "Sam," he says, patiently even though he’s yelling to be heard. "Sam! You ready or not?"

He’s ready. They’re all ready. Sam’s thoughts are reduced to quick bursts of light that slide across the walls he’s built around them, keeping the hotel out. Disco didn’t die, something better just came along, and that’s what Sam reaches for, watching Dean watch Michael watch him, hefting the weapons in their hands, that there’s something better than this. That the risk of hurting is better than what Bones is offering them. That they’re stronger than he is.

They swing chairs at the disco ball turning above their heads, but in Sam’s mind they’re more than that, and when they hit, the ball explodes as if they’d had axes. For a second, all that there is, is glass. The ball bursts like an infection and they cover their heads; that’s why they don’t see the blood. It pours out of the ball after a breathless, bright second where the glass slices their hands, the backs of their necks. It splashes on the floor wherever it doesn’t soak them through, and the slaughterhouse smell is enough that Sam forgets about the smoke, about the fire that Michael started in the DJ booth.

They’re driven back, and when Sam turns around, there’s a body on the dance floor, curled on its side under the dripping disco ball.

Dean is the first one to move back towards it, slipping on the slick tile. Michael follows him, and Sam the last of all to step forward and see.

Bones turns bloody teeth towards them. The capillaries in his eyeballs have burst. The drums in Sam’s head are stuttering, losing momentum. Bones is dying. Michael kneels on the floor next to him. He reaches for Bones – some sort of comforting impulse – and then falters. He looks up at Dean, his eyes wide under a mask of gore. He’s crying from the smoke and there are two clean tracks down his cheeks. "Is this it?" he asks. "This is all it takes? All that we went through –"

"Maybe," Dean says tightly, close behind Michael. He dropped the chair when he went sliding, and now the shotgun’s back in his hands, cocked and ready. When Bones laughs, it’s a wet, clotted noise. His hands flop and twist on the ground. He died alone, Sam thinks, staring up at the disco ball like it had all the answers. Financial ruin – the end of their lifestyle – that couldn’t be all there was. One night, Bones set fire to the Red Room, taking seven dancers, five kitchen workers and three guests with him. If there was a secret there – he was gonna take it with him.

Bones grabs Michael’s outstretched hand. Michael winces, but doesn’t try and pull away. The fire is all around them, suffocating them. The ceiling groans. "You think it’s better out there?" Bones gurgles, his grin decayed and broken. He doesn’t even look human anymore. His heart thuds twice, hesitates, thuds twice more.

It’s Michael who answers, drawing his gun and pressing it to Bones’ forehead. "Yeah," he says, "It is."

 

The first thing that Sam thinks is that they’ve turned on the sprinkler system. _Oh good_ , he thinks. _I didn’t really want to burn to death._ The water is cool on his forehead and he opens his mouth to let it wash the ash out of his throat. It takes him a lot longer than it should to notice that he’s lying on the ground.

He opens his eyes, and frowns. The moon is a thumbnail in the middle of a black sky, punctuated only here and there with rain clouds. Somebody is screaming. Still fogged and bruised and scared, the sound makes sense. Somebody _should_ be screaming, bad things have happened.

Dean, Sam thinks, and reaches out. He reaches with his left hand, waiting for his fingers to hit the space Dean usually occupies, between Sam and the world. Dean sleeps closest to the door in every motel they live in, always within Sam’s reach. His fingers grope through empty space and then close on a sleeve.

"Dean," Sam says, and a woman sobs.

He jerks upright, dropping the woman’s sleeve as if it stung him. He’s outside. Out of the hotel, surrounded by air so clean and vast that it could suffocate him. There are people all around him, crawling on hands and knees or lying facedown in the muddy field, their hands clenched around the scant grass. The woman next to him is pretty even in polyester. She’s not the only one crying.

There’s _so many people_. Less than there should be. He doesn’t try to look around to see if Chris’ body made it out with them, tries not to think about it. "Dean!" he bellows, " _Michael_!"

The only answer he gets is more crying. They’re getting louder. Some of them are screaming, up on their feet like Sam is, hands spread at their sides. A woman grabs at Sam’s shirt and then reels away, stumbling on the uneven ground. Most of them are dressed like they’re still trapped in the hotel.

He can’t see Dean or Michael anywhere. He’s surrounded by people who never wanted to be rescued and he can’t find his brother, can’t find Michael, and if he could work the words past the knot in his throat he’d be screaming like the rest of them that Bones _promised_ , that Bones said he’d let them all go.

"Sam!"

He doesn’t want to believe it at first. Can’t trust himself any more than he could’ve trusted Bones. But then it comes again: " _Sam_!"

He turns. Still half-believing, but they’re there, really there, the thump of disco heartbeats all gone, the only smell of smoke the one still lingering in his hair. They’re sitting together only a handful of yards away, Michael up on his knees, Dean cross-legged, blood washing off their faces in sticky trails. "Sam," Michael calls again, grinning with relief.

Sam drags in a long, shuddering breath and then he’s moving towards them, slipping on the wet ground, tripping over grass, sliding when his knees hit earth. They catch him before he can really fall, and he wraps his arms around them, shoulders bumping painfully against his chest. He buries his face into Dean’s neck, short hair prickling at his nose, Michael pressed tight up against his side. He holds on.

 

The creak of the car door echoes across the empty field. The slam of the trunk is even louder. The bag of salt is heavy in Sam’s hand. His footsteps are swallowed up in the fog as he walks across the road. It might be close to dawn, but it’s hard to tell in the fog, which touches the ground and swallows up the rest of the sky. It’s a bright no-color and it hurts his eyes to look at it.

He has to get another bag of salt out of the trunk before he’s finished. He walks back and forth, north to south. The salt is as thick as snow on the ground. In the daytime, it’s easy to see the trash on the ground, the remains of hundreds of partiers that didn’t get kidnapped. He counts two broken toilets, six bumpers and an uncountable amount of used condoms. He steps carefully around broken glass.

It takes two bags of salt but only one can of gas to cover the field. He’s careless with the gas, sloshing it over the condoms and the glass and the toilets. It won’t take a whole lot for the field to burn – it’s as full of plastic as latex – but he wants to be sure that nothing will ever, ever grow there again.

A cracked Bakelite bracelet is all the evidence he can find that people appeared there last night, missing years or months or weeks. Sam, Dean and Michael lost thirteen days. Michael was the one to call the hospital, a concerned citizen too distraught to leave his name. Letting the authorities know about all those people as they tucked their tails between their legs, climbed into the Impala and left. It was Dean who counted the survivors, and came up with twenty-seven, not including themselves. Less than half of those taken who made it out and didn’t turn to shadows or burn themselves alive.

They drove for the closest motel, Dean on a beeline like he was born with a homing device. Sam checked them in. Got two rooms, handed Dean one key and took the other for himself, carefully not looking into either of their faces. It was a relief that Dean didn’t say anything, that he nudged Michael when the kid opened his mouth. It was the room next door and Sam turned the TV on and left it running so he wouldn’t try to listen for their voices, for the bump of the headboard against the wall. He still didn’t sleep.

He doesn’t stay at the field for long. He didn’t see any cops on the way over but that doesn’t mean they’re not out there. Thirty people appeared in this field last night and someone could still be keeping an eye on it. He lingers just long enough to make sure that the fire is really going, and then he drives away.

He takes his time going back to the motel. God knows it could be the last time he drives the Impala. The roads are empty. He stops for donuts. He’s the first customer of the day and they have to go and dig the wands for the espresso machine out of the dish room. He doesn’t know how Michael takes his caffeine, so he gets him a large coffee, same as Dean. It’s habit, more than anything. He can’t imagine knocking on their door, waiting for them to answer it – hastily dressed, still fogged with sleep – but he loads it all into the car anyway, his double latte in his hand, the donuts in a bag on the passenger seat. They’re still warm from the deep fryer and they fill the whole car with the smell of grease and sugar.

He’s parking by the time he notices Dean, and even then, he hesitates. He collects the donuts, the duffle. Sorts through it as he glances out the window, watches Dean’s socked feet kicking back and forth over the edge of the second floor walkway, Dean himself draped between the metal posts of the railing, his head poked between the bars. The coffee is getting cold and so are the donuts, and that’s what Sam blames as his body gets out of the Impala, as his feet swing towards the staircase leading towards the second floor.

Dean watches him approach. Doesn’t look away from Sam’s face even when he has to crane his neck to do it. He doesn’t budge, so after a second, Sam sits down. The gap between the walkway and the railing is too small to fit his legs so he sits cross-legged, his knees bumping up against the railing.

"Sweet," Dean says when Sam hands him the coffee. The bag of donuts goes between them, open for rummaging. Dean flips the lid off the coffee, groans a little when he takes that first sip. The sound goes straight to the pit of Sam’s belly and for a moment all he can see is Dean’s mouth wrapped around his cock, Michael’s hand between them.

He turns away, hoping Dean doesn’t notice the look on his face. His latte is awful. Tastes like chemicals in there, like whatever they use to clean the machine didn’t get properly washed out. He drinks it anyway. It’s not the worst thing he’s ever had.

He risks a glance towards his brother. Soft, mussed hair, a hoodie on underneath his jacket, drawn up around his neck. Dean doesn’t own a hoodie; it’s probably Michael’s, but he’d have to see the logo on the front to be sure. When he looks up, Dean is staring at him again, the look on his face wry and uncomfortable.

"Shit," he says, glancing away.

"Yeah," Sam says.

"So, um," Dean says, and then sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair. "Shit."

"I'm sorry," Sam says softly.

"Shut up," Dean says, frowning. He sounds tired.

"What did you mean, when you said you knew?"

He looks out over the parking lot instead of at Dean, who’s probably making a face at him. "Sam … come on," he says.

"I wanna know," Sam says. A car drifts by, just the flash of headlights across the fog. Sam can hear the TV he left on in his room, some cartoon with funny noises and lots of shrieking.

"It means I knew, all right?"

"How long?" Sam asks, and then, in a small voice, "All along?"

Dean shrugs. "Fuck. I don’t know. Probably. You’re not very good at hiding shit like that."

"Why didn’t you ever _say_ anything?"

Dean shoots him a look of pure exasperation, and Sam has to laugh, just a little bit. "Why didn’t _you_ , huh? You tell me that. I guess I thought it’d … take care of itself," he finishes uncomfortably.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Me too."

They’re quiet for a long time. Dean finally can’t hold off anymore and paws through the donuts. Sam can’t think of anything to say. The coffee sits uneasily in his empty stomach, setting his foot twitching underneath his thigh. He almost flinches away when Dean grabs it, wraps his hand around Sam’s boot and gives him a grim look.

"Stop," he says. "Okay?"

"Okay," Sam says, a bit meekly.

Dean pats Sam’s ankle. "Damn right," he says, and visibly braces himself. "Look. What it means is that you’re my brother and nothing can ever change that and you’re stupid for thinking anything else. Okay? We’ve kinda been through a lot in the last couple years and there’s nobody else I want watching my back more than you."

"Not even Michael?" Sam can’t help himself from asking.

Dean rolls his eyes. He stuffs the rest of his donut in his mouth rather than answer, and Sam finds himself … weirdly okay with it. He wants to be mad that Dean won’t answer that, even now – won’t give him a straight response. But either Sam’s lost the right to complain or he’s actually grown to like the kid, god forbid, so he doesn’t say anything.

Sam fishes a donut out of the bag. It’s still warm. "You shouldn’t forgive me," he says, turning it around and around in his hands. "I did something really wrong to you and Michael. I’m fucked in the head."

He watches Dean process that, staring down at his empty coffee cup like it has the right response inside. He sees Dean’s jaw firm, and when he glances back up at Sam he looks almost _angry_. "You’re my brother and nothing’ll ever change that, got it?" he says again, slow this time. Like he’s just stating the obvious. He gestures at the bag of donuts. "What, you think this is your Big Chicken Dinner? Come on, Sammy. You’re stuck with us."

"Us?" Sam echoes.

"Yeah," Dean says, "Us. The royal fucking we. Get off my case, man. Just – just take it, I’m tired of holding it out there."

They share a long glance. He’s been stealing looks at Dean for so long that it feels strange to just … meet his brother’s eyes, to let himself look back. Feels good. Dean quirks a smile at him, and Sam manages to return it.

Dean doesn’t move when Sam leans over to kiss him. His lips are dry, and it’s awkward for a long moment because he’s not kissing Sam back. Until he does, sucking in a shaky breath and Sam gets a taste of bitter coffee before Dean’s pulling back.

"God, Sammy … I don’t know if I was holding it out that far. You gotta give me a little bit of time on this one, okay?"

Sam wants to start counting out one Mississippi two, the ghost of backseat games to bug his older brother. Dean must see it in his eyes, and huffs out a soft laugh. They look away at the same time, stare into middle ground. Still grinning, just a little bit.

The door behind them creaks, and Sam twists his head to see Michael emerge, rubbing his eyes. He’s got the blanket wrapped around himself, presumably because Dean stole his hoodie. He sits on Dean’s other side, squinting amiably into the growing daylight. "Oh, sweet," he says, "donuts."

"Morning, sunshine," Dean says, and Michael grimaces.

"Yeah, whatever. Is that coffee? Is that coffee for _me_?"

"Yeah," Sam says, and thinks, _you’d be good for him._

"Fucking awesome," Michael says, with satisfaction. "Thanks, Sam."

"Uh huh," Sam says. He sucks a long breath in – holds it – lets it out into air that’s warmer than what he took in. The sun is rising, just barely showing its face through the melting fog. The day’ll be a hot one. "Dean," Sam says, and when they turn to look at him, he asks, trying to keep the urgency out of his voice, "what now?"

Dean shrugs, grins suddenly. "Who the fuck knows."

"I know," Michael says, and he sounds so certain that Sam’s breath catches. Then he sees that long mouth smile, those blue eyes meet his own and know, just _know_. Sam smiles, tentatively, dips his head a little in acknowledgement, and Michael’s grin widens. "Breakfast," he finishes.

"Breakfast," Sam repeats, grinning.

"Yeah," Michael says, "yeah, that sounds about right."

  



End file.
